


muddle through somehow

by curtaincall



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Food Blogger!Aziraphale, M/M, Neighbors, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, i mean they're fake married and it's not the dick van dyke show they're sharing a bed, let's fake a relationship FOR CHRISTMAS, merry crisis, what if we were happily married? ha ha just kidding...unless?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21816394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: Aziraphale Fell runs a successful food blog, Celestial Comestibles, where he shares mouthwatering recipes and heartwarming stories about his happy domestic life in a cottage with his husband and son. As promotion for his upcoming cookbook, his publishers run a contest: one lucky winner will get to spend Christmas with Aziraphale and his family.What the publishers don't know is that therealAziraphale Fell is a single city-dweller. And if he wants to keep up his happily married persona, he'll have to acquire a cottage, husband, and son before Christmas.As it happens, his friend and neighbor Anthony Crowley has his nephew staying with him for the holidays. One fake marriage proposal later, and everything seems tickety-boo--as long as Aziraphale can keep from developing inconveniently real feelings for his pretend husband...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 660
Kudos: 1572
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU, Ineffable life, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise of this fic is from the 1945 movie "Christmas in Connecticut," but it goes in a slightly different direction.

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

As another lovely winter day dawns here in my idyllic little cottage, I’m reminded to take a moment to be thankful for all the blessings that surround me—my dear husband, our little son, and our health and happiness.

Now I’m certain many of you, like me, are starting to plan your holiday menus. It’s important to remember not to bite off more than you can chew (no pun intended!) by planning too many complicated dishes. Here are some tips on keeping it manageable…

* * *

Aziraphale Fell pushed back his desk chair, stretched, and stood up. Ever since he’d quit his day job to focus on blogging full-time (not long after the cookware companies had started reaching out about spon-con), he sometimes passed days without seeing anyone else. It was time, he figured, for a short walk. Some fresh air, a little exercise—maybe he’d even stop for a cup of cocoa, exchange a few words with an actual human.

Unlike the Aziraphale of Celestial Comestibles, the _real_ Aziraphale lived in a cramped flat in Soho with a rather stupid cat and a collection of wilting houseplants that he kept forgetting to water. It wasn’t so much about deceiving his readers as it was creating a more relatable—or even _aspirational—_ image of himself. Suburban mothers didn’t want to read tips on The Perfect Pot Roast from a single, urban gay man. So he’d invented a husband for himself—always carefully referred to as “my dear husband,” never by name, and who was supposedly “camera-shy”—and, about a year ago, he’d announced that they’d adopted a little boy, who’d supposedly just turned six. (Aziraphale kept a document of Blog-Aziraphale’s life story saved on his computer, full of pertinent information about his supposed existence. It wouldn’t do to contradict himself.)

He pulled on a jumper, shoved his feet into a pair of shoes, and headed out into the hallway.

He was locking the door behind him when a familiar voice drawled, “Venturing out of your cozy little nest, are you?”

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, startled, and dropped his keys. He made to pick them up, but Crowley got there first, stretching a long arm down and then extending his palm towards Aziraphale.

“Oh—thank you,” said Aziraphale, taking the keys and trying not to notice the spark of heat when their hands touched.

“Of course,” said Crowley.

“You’re—” Aziraphale checked his watch. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”

Crowley, who’d lived in the flat next to Aziraphale for a little over two years, worked in Finance doing something-or-other, and kept ridiculous hours. Sometimes he didn’t make it home till two or three in the morning (not that Aziraphale stayed up to listen for him, or anything. He just didn’t sleep much, himself). 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, leaning against the wall between their doors. “Finished with the project earlier than we were expecting. So. They’ve let the hounds of hell roam free for the night.”

“Oh, that’s good then,” said Aziraphale, managing to actually lock his door properly on the second attempt.

“What’re you up to?” Crowley asked. ”Got a date?” He enunciated the _t_ s. 

Aziraphale felt himself blush. “Not exactly dressed for it, am I?” He plucked at his jumper, which, he was now realizing, had a hole in the left arm. A far cry, certainly, from Crowley’s sharply tailored suit.

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. I think you look—” He broke off. “Fine,” he finished, a trifle lamely.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, keenly aware of how red his cheeks must be. “No. I’m just—off for a walk. Need to stretch my legs.”

Crowley nodded. “Blogging getting a bit solitary, is it? Oh wait—I’d forgotten. You’ve got your _husband,_ haven’t you?”

Aziraphale had made the mistake of telling Crowley, early into their acquaintance (friendship? Were they friends?) about his fictional blog family. (There had been wine involved.) Crowley had subsequently developed a _most_ vexing habit of making snarky comments about Aziraphale’s _husband_ and _son_ at every turn.

“Ha ha, very witty,” he said. “I’d better be off, then. Before it’s too dark.”

“Right, yeah,” said Crowley, and something had shifted in the air, some new awkwardness, and Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure of the source. “Oh—while I have you,” he added, “just so you know, my nephew’s coming to stay for a few weeks. Over the holiday. Parents booked an adults-only cruise, and I’m stuck on child-minding duty.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, wrinkling his nose, “rather rude of them, isn’t it? Inconsiderate?” 

Crowley shrugged. “I like the kid. But, just wanted to give you a heads-up, should you hear the pitter-patter of little feet cavorting about, or whatnot. That’ll be him.”

“Well, you must bring him by,” said Aziraphale, without really thinking about it. “I’d love to meet him.”

Crowley grinned unexpectedly. “Maybe I will, then,” he said, and disappeared into his flat.

Aziraphale looked down again at his jumper, resolving to bin it at the next opportunity. He had plenty of hole-free clothing, after all. Somewhere. 

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

Things are getting a bit hectic here at the cottage! The little one is ill, and I’ve been on chicken soup duty for the past three days. Far from our usual culinary variety, but it’s difficult to argue with a sick child, isn’t it?

Before we launch into today’s recipe (duck breasts with cherry sauce, perfect for a dinner party—or just dinner for two, as we have it here), I’d like to remind you that you can pre-order the Celestial Comestibles cookbook _now_ for delivery by Christmas—60 all-new recipes, plus a few of your favorites from the site. And I’m happy to announce that I’ll be doing a small tour to promote the book—watch this space for cities and dates!

* * *

Aziraphale’s phone rang. He jolted backwards in his chair— _why_ was the ringer on so loudly? Ah, yes, it was because he’d constantly been missing calls when it’d been on vibrate, and now that he had a _book_ to promote, he’d been informed by the marketing department at his publisher’s that answering the phone was not, in fact, optional. 

“Hello?”

“Ah, Aziraphale, excellent!” 

Aziraphale winced a little at the preternaturally cheery tones of Gabriel, the marketing rep from his publisher and a constant thorn in his side. The book tour had been Gabriel’s idea, and Aziraphale had fought it tooth and nail—it wasn’t that he didn’t want to meet readers, he’d insisted. He just didn’t want to meet hundreds of them at a time, queued up inside a bookshop for a quick scribble in their cookbooks and a few awkwardly exchanged words. But it was, apparently, the done thing, and Aziraphale had allowed himself to be persuaded in exchange for a higher royalty percentage from all sales made at tour stops.

Gabriel was running through the details of the tour, which was scheduled to start in January, and Aziraphale listened with half an ear and made vague noises of comprehension and assent.

“And,” Gabriel said, “we’ve just come up with this really excellent promotion to run over the holidays.”

“Oh, yes?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’m calling it _Christmas with Aziraphale—_ really helps that your first name is so distinctive, looks better on the ads—or maybe _A Celestial Christmas,_ we’ll see. But anyway. Everyone who pre-orders your book before December 20th will be entered into a contest to come spend Christmas with you!”

“Christmas with _me,”_ Aziraphale said faintly.

“Yeah!” said Gabriel, altogether too enthusiastically. “At your cottage! You’ll cook for them—don’t worry, I’ll give you full discretion over the menu, I know how fussy you get about that.”

“My cottage,” Aziraphale repeated. The publishers, when they’d approached him about doing the cookbook, had taken it for granted that the life he’d presented on the blog was real. (Why _wouldn’t_ they, after all?) They’d never actually _asked_ if it was all a lie, and Aziraphale had never found the right moment to proactively enlighten them. But. This was all right, this was fine, he knew a few people with cottages that he could call, and surely at least one of them wouldn’t be there during the holidays, so he’d rent it, and make dinner for whoever this _lucky fan_ was.

“All right,” he said. Now that he thought about it, it didn’t sound half bad—built-in excuse not to visit his family over Christmas, only the _one_ reader instead of a bookshop full of them. The whole thing might actually be quite pleasant.

“Great!” said Gabriel. “We’re describing it as the full Aziraphale experience...stay in your guest room, eat your food, meet your husband and kid…”

“Hold on,” said Aziraphale, “my…”

Gabriel sighed. “Look, Aziraphale, I know he’s shy, or whatever, but people _love_ your stories about him. And the mystery aspect to it, that’s only going to make people want to meet him more! You’re a charming guy, I’m sure you can talk him into it.”

“But—” Aziraphale started.

“It’s really not negotiable,” said Gabriel, in that cheery tone edged with steel. “Actually, we’ve already put out the press release. So, come December 23, I want to arrive at that cottage with our lucky winner and find you and your little family all ready to welcome her in. Or him. But, you know, it’ll be a her. Got it?”

 _“You’re_ coming?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yup,” said Gabriel, and didn’t elaborate further. “All right, sounds good, talk to you soon.” He rang off.

Aziraphale sagged backwards in his chair. His first instinct was to immediately call Gabriel back and, in no uncertain terms, decline the whole thing, to Hell with the consequences. But he hesitated, because he’d gone up against Gabriel before, and never quite managed to come out on top (see: the book tour). And what would he say, anyway? “Sorry, my whole persona, the one you’ve built all the marketing for my book around, it’s a lie? I’m actually pathetic and single and most of my conversations are with my cat?”

Terpsichore, as though she knew he was thinking about her, trotted over and wound her way around his legs. Aziraphale reached down to pick her up and held her in his lap, stroking her absentmindedly as he thought. If he _wasn’t_ ready to tell Gabriel the truth, what was the alternative? Go through with it? Somehow _acquire_ a husband and child before December 23rd?

Actually, he realized, if he placed an ad now, he’d very likely be able to find some out-of-work actor ready to play husband for a modest fee. Yes, that might work, he’d have to give them the whole backstory on his fictional relationship, but— 

But, he realized, that didn’t solve the problem of the _child._ Because, how would he find a child with parents willing to put it in the care of a complete stranger—and over the holidays, no less.

He heard the door to the flat next door swing open, just then, and an unfamiliar, youthful voice ask, “Uncle Anthony, can we go to the cinema today? I want to see _Frozen_ again.”

Aziraphale jumped out of his chair, sending Terpsichore to the ground. She hissed in disapproval, and he muttered an apology before darting towards his door and out into the hallway.

Crowley was just locking the door behind him, a small child tugging on his sleeve and repeating his Elsa-related wishes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, half-breathlessly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, turning, and smiled slowly at him. “Just heading out. This is my nephew Adam.”

“Hi,” said Adam, waving a sticky-looking hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Aziraphale hurriedly. 

“What’s gotten into _you?”_ Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I need you to marry me,” Aziraphale said in a rush.

Crowley blinked slowly. He had lovely eyes, Aziraphale thought irrelevantly, a shade of brown that caught the light and turned into a deep honey-gold. “Very flattering,” he said, at last, “but it _does_ seem a little sudden, don’t you think? I believe it’s the done thing to, I don’t know, go to dinner first, or—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, cheeks flaring hot, “not—not for _real._ I need you to _pretend_ to be my husband.”

Something shifted in Crowley’s gaze. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Really,” said Aziraphale, attempting to make light of it, “as though I’d ask you to marry me for _real,_ just like that! Would be rather forward of me, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley shrugged. “Right, course, you don’t—go that fast.”

“I shouldn’t think _anyone_ does,” said Aziraphale, “but, more importantly, will you do it?”

Crowley held up a hand. “Slow down. You want me to—pretend to be your husband?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, it’s—well, I’ve got a book coming out, a cookbook,” he said, “and Gab—the publishers have decided that they’re raffling off an opportunity for one lucky fan to come and spend Christmas with me. As a promotional sort of thing. Only, they expect—”

Crowley made a comprehending sound. “And they expect your perfect little life that you write about on the blog, yeah?”

“It’s not _perfect,”_ Aziraphale began automatically, then realized that arguing with Crowley was perhaps not the best way to persuade him to help. “Yes. They expect my husband.”

“And your son,” Crowley added. “Just how do you—” He glanced at Adam. Terpsichore had followed Aziraphale out of his flat and was purring loudly at the boy, who had begun to pet her with evident delight. “Ah. I expect you’ll be wanting him too, then.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, glad not to have to explain, “that’s why I thought to ask _you,_ of course. Since you’ve got your nephew.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “How devastating,” he said, sardonically. “And here I was thinking it was my personal charms.”

Aziraphale blushed furiously. “I don’t mean—” he began. “It’s not that—of course you’re very— _handsome,_ and, and _debonair,_ please don’t think that I wouldn’t—”

Crowley held up a hand to stop him, a faint smile creeping over his face. “Only joking,” he said. 

“Right, of course,” said Aziraphale, _really,_ as though Crowley would need reassuring about his _personal charms,_ he was obviously very—well, never mind. Aziraphale was uncomfortably aware that the heat in his cheeks had begun to radiate downwards in most inconvenient fashion. (Particularly given that there was a _child_ present.) “At any rate,” he said, hurriedly, “will you? Do it? Pretend to be my husband?”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, casually, but Aziraphale thought he detected a strain of— _something,_ anyway, in his tone. “Sure, why not, sounds a lark.”

“Oh, _splendid,”_ said Aziraphale, and broke into a smile.

Crowley grinned back at him, and they stood there for a moment, just smiling at each other.

The moment was rather definitively ruined by a disgruntled meow from Terpsichore. Aziraphale looked over, alarmed to see that Adam was holding the cat in what looked to be a most unpleasant position for her.

 _“Here,”_ Aziraphale said, rescuing her. “Let me. Anyway,” he added, turning back to Crowley, “ _thank you._ So much.”

“When will you be needing me, then?” Crowley asked.

“Ah. Well, I’ve got to get a _cottage,_ as well, but I believe the winner’s supposed to join us there on the 23rd.”

“Head down on the 22nd, then, yeah? Assuming you’ve got a place by then.”

“Yes, that’ll do nicely,” Aziraphale said. “I, ah, I rather think we should _meet,_ though. Beforehand. If we’re to be convincingly married, there’s lots of things we’ll have to decide on. A whole _history,_ a whole _backstory._ I’ll gather all the details from the blog, and give them to you, but we’ll have to be more thoroughly prepared than that.”

“I agree completely,” said Crowley. “Why don’t you pop by round nine, after Adam’s in bed. I’ll find us a nice bottle of wine and we can chat about our relationship.”

“Our _fake_ relationship,” Aziraphale said, laughing, “when you say _chat about our relationship_ it sounds like—”

“Course,” Crowley said, tone detached, “sorry I, y’know, misspoke.” He took Adam’s hand. “For the time being, though, we’d better be on our way, if we want to catch that _Frozen_ showing.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“See you tonight,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale watched him and Adam disappear down the stairs.

* * *

For some unaccountable reason, Aziraphale changed clothes no fewer than five times before heading over to Crowley’s. He settled, eventually, on an oatmeal-colored cardigan over his most comfortable trousers. He also rummaged around in his kitchen for something to bring over. Crowley was doing him rather an _enormous_ favor, after all, and a tin of homemade biscuits was really the _least_ he could do to thank him.

Crowley had changed clothes, too, Aziraphale noticed upon his opening the door. Instead of the expensive-looking suits he wore to work, or the tight (frankly, _obscenely_ tight) jeans that characterized his weekend outfits, he’d got on a faded T-shirt and joggers made from some soft jersey material. It was a rather pajama-like ensemble, which prompted the realization that, oh yes, they were quite likely to see each other in their pajamas, given the nature of the upcoming trip.

“Come in,” Crowley repeated, and Aziraphale realized he’d been standing there gawking.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, and stepped in. He’d been in Crowley’s flat on several previous occasions, and the decor hadn’t changed much—stark and minimalist, a strong contrast to Aziraphale’s own cozy clutter. There were, he noticed, now a few more signs of actual human residence—a toy fire engine rolled into a corner, a stuffed elephant laying on the couch.

Aziraphale gingerly removed the elephant and sat down.

“I brought biscuits,” he said, placing the tin on the coffee table. “Homemade.”

“And which recipe would that be?” asked Crowley, who had disappeared into the kitchen and was now emerging with two glasses of wine. “Ultra-buttery shortbread? Chocolate-hazelnut linzer stars? Brown-butter—”

“Gingerbread,” Aziraphale said, cutting off the recitation of Aziraphale’s Greatest Dessert Hits. “Spicy, dark, full of molasses. You’ll like it, I think.”

“Dark and spicy?” Crowley asked. “Hmm, that _does_ sound intriguing.” He handed one of the wine glasses to Aziraphale, placed his own on a coaster, and sat down on the opposite end of the couch from Aziraphale. “Oh—gingerbread _men,”_ he said, reaching into the tin, “you didn’t _say,_ how _sweet.”_ Aziraphale had the distinct feeling that he was being mocked.

However, he needed Crowley, so he just nodded, and proffered a stack of papers.

“What’re _those?”_ Crowley asked, around a mouthful of gingerbread. “This is fabulous, by the way, you weren’t lying.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “And this is your study guide. I gathered together everything I’ve ever mentioned on the blog about my husband, our marriage, our life. I’ve always been fairly vague about it, about _him,_ so mercifully I don’t believe there’s anything in there that’ll contradict it being you.”

Crowley swallowed the last of the gingerbread. “You _printed_ it?” he asked. “You could’ve emailed.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “yes, well, didn’t think of that.”

“You make your living on the Internet,” Crowley said, “and you didn’t think to use it for _this?”_ He took the papers from Aziraphale and started flipping through them. “Although, by the looks of your blog, you peaked during the Geocities era, so…”

“People visit my blog for the _content,”_ Aziraphale said haughtily, “not for flashy bells and whistles.” He took a sip of wine. “Ooh, this is lovely, thank you. _And._ My publishers have hired some graphic designer or other to do a full website makeover before the cookbook release, so it’ll be up to date soon enough.”

“End of an era,” said Crowley, lightly. “Anyway. Thanks for this information. I’ll make a _detailed_ study.”

“We should—” Aziraphale took another, larger sip of wine. “We should agree on some other things, too. That aren’t in there.”

“Such as?”

“Well—” he started with one of the safer ones— “how did we meet?”

“Mmm,” said Crowley. “How about, it was raining, and my umbrella blew inside out, and you very gallantly offered me yours.”

“Ah—yes,” said Aziraphale, swallowing, “that’s—very good. Very romantic.”

“What else?” Crowley asked, taking another gingerbread man. 

“Pet names,” said Aziraphale, looking doggedly at his wineglass, “like—like _sweetheart,_ or _darling,_ or—”

“Angel,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale glanced up. Crowley wasn’t smiling, just gazing thoughtfully at Aziraphale, his hands fiddling with the gingerbread man.

“Angel,” said Aziraphale faintly, “that’ll do.” 

Crowley bit the gingerbread man’s head off. “Great,” he said. “How long have we been married for, again?”

“Ten years,” said Aziraphale, promptly, “that’s in the documents.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, “the tin anniversary.” He tapped the biscuit tin. “And you’ve come through nicely, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “That’s—that’s funny.”

“Is it in the documents,” Crowley asked, lightly, “who proposed to who?”

“To whom,” said Aziraphale, automatically. “And, no, I hadn’t quite...gone into that much detail.”

“Any thoughts?” Crowley held onto the _s_ a trifle longer than was necessary.

“Erm,” said Aziraphale, because the truth was, he _had_ had thoughts. It went with the territory. Make up a fictional husband, force yourself to tell adorable stories about your domestic life, and it was altogether too easy to find yourself embellishing where it wasn’t actually needed, coming up with stories that wouldn’t be shared in blog posts, just the more private corners of your mind. And so, yes, all right, Aziraphale had given a fair amount of thought to imagining his husband. 

But, that nebulous tall-dark-handsome-never-hogs-the-covers husband was one thing, and the very real person sitting in front of him, decapitating another gingerbread man, was another.

So Aziraphale thrust the “he proposed privately, while we were having a picnic, just the two of us, and I said yes immediately of course and then we kissed in the grass while the ants got at the foie gras” fantasy aside, and said, instead, “Ah, yes, I think I did.”

Crowley looked pleased. “And how did you propose, then?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, rummaging about in his brain, “I think...perhaps, we were—we were in a boat, in the middle of a lake, and I did it there.” Aziraphale didn’t even _like_ boats. They made him nauseous.

Something like disappointment fluttered across Crowley’s face. “Right. Boat it is. And, our wedding? Church? Registry office?”

“Registry office,” Aziraphale said, carefully—he didn’t know, he realized, whether Crowley was at all religious—“um, small affair, just our families and a few close friends.”

“Sounds lovely,” Crowley said, without irony. “And we honeymooned in…”

“I’ll let you decide that, I think,” Aziraphale said, because _really,_ did he have to do _all_ the work here?

“Is Paris too cliched?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” said Aziraphale, and felt the need to clear his throat, suddenly, “no, I—I’ve never been, actually, so—”

“So we shouldn’t use it, then.”

“No, no, it’s good, I’d like to go—”

“But we’re not,” Crowley said, an edge in his voice, “going for _real,_ this is our fictional honeymoon that took place ten years ago. So it probably _shouldn’t_ be to a city you’ve never visited.”

Aziraphale blushed deeply. “Oh, quite—quite right. Silly of me. Not thinking straight. Ah. Rome?”

“I’ve been to Rome,” Crowley said, “that’ll work. In spring, yeah?”

“In spring,” Aziraphale said, “oh, yes, that would’ve been very nice, I think.”

Crowley nodded. “We’ll have to say it was.”


	2. Chapter 2

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

I’m delighted to announce that we have a _winner_ for the Celestial Christmas pre-order contest! Congratulations to Ms. Tracy Potts, who will be joining me (and my little family) for a few days over the holidays. Thank you so much to all of you who have pre-ordered the book—your support genuinely does mean the world to me, and I am so incredibly grateful.

As tonight marks the first night of Chanukah, today’s recipe is for sufganiyot, and I’ve invited a guest blogger and dear friend of mine to share her tips for the perfect deep-fry—no miracles necessary…

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t own a car (you didn’t _need_ one, in London, and he’d never much liked driving anyway), so he rode down to the cottage with Crowley and Adam, who spent the first ten minutes of the drive asking questions and then promptly fell asleep.

This was, in Aziraphale’s view, nothing short of a superhuman ability on his part, given the nature of Crowley’s driving. He was prone to travel sickness at the best of times, and taking every turn as though it were the last curve before the big drop on a roller coaster was _far_ from what he considered ideal circumstances.

“Remind me,” he said, acerbically, as they got out of the car, “to take antiemetics on the way back, I mean, _really,_ it’s enough to turn anyone’s stomach. Thank you, though,” he added, ridiculously, out of guilt, “for the ride, very kind of you.”

Crowley snorted. “Make up your mind, was it torture or a favor?”

“Can’t something be both?”

The grin faded from Crowley’s face, and he nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Well, sorry about the travel sickness, then, and you’re welcome for the ride. That do?”

“That’ll be fine _,”_ Aziraphale said. “Oh! Before I forget. I, ah, I got you something.”

“Told you already,” Crowley said uncomfortably, “don’t want any sort of payment for this, accepting money for pretending to be someone’s husband is just a _smidge_ too close to prostitution for my comfort—not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, only, I just—well, never mind, I don’t want to be paid and that’s the end of it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, it’s not that, it’s part of it. Rings.” He dug a matched pair of gold wedding bands out of his pocket—they’d been sitting around in a drawer of his for months, after he’d spotted them at a car boot sale and found the price too good to pass up. Good job he had, too, he thought now, handing one of the rings to Crowley and slipping the other over his finger. 

“Ah,” said Crowley, “yes, course,” and put on his own ring. It felt strangely—well, not _intimate,_ not that, they hadn’t put them on _each other,_ after all, but there was something about the act of it, so entwined in Aziraphale’s mind with the concept of _actual marriage,_ that for a moment it felt altogether too much like a wedding.

“Uncle Anthony?” Adam asked, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Don’t you remember,” he said, in his best talking-to-children voice, “that for the next few days you’re going to call Uncle Anthony _daddy,_ and me _dad,_ all right? As part of a game we’re playing?”

Adam nodded distractedly. “Yes, and I’m not—s’posed to talk to anyone about you. Or my parents. Just about me,” he said proudly, and grinned. 

Adam was, of course, the weakest link in the deception, because _he_ could hardly be expected to memorize a dossier of backstory. However, Crowley had pointed out, they just had to say that Adam had a habit of making up stories, as so many kids did, and wave away any inconsistencies with “ha, how imaginative of him!” It helped, too, that Aziraphale’s fictional son had been adopted only about a year ago, and so any mentions of Adam’s parents or real life could be attributed to that. 

They lugged all their things inside—an amount of luggage that was frankly ridiculous for a four-night stay, but that included several bags of groceries, all the presents Adam’s parents had provided on behalf of “Santa,” as well as Terpsichore’s various accoutrements. (Aziraphale had been about to leave her at home—she’d be fine with the auto-feeder for such a short absence—until he’d remembered that Blog Aziraphale also had a cat, because Real Aziraphale was the sort of person who, given any sort of public forum, would leap at the first opportunity to share pet photos.) 

“Which bedroom d’you want, kiddo?” Crowley asked, throwing one of the doors open to show Adam. “Aziraphale, you don’t care which one he takes, right?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Just not the master.”

“Right, that’ll be us,” Crowley said, “actually, if you want to put our stuff in there I’ll settle Adam in.”

“That sounds—that’s good,” Aziraphale said, _that’ll be us,_ because—of course, of course they were sharing the master bedroom, that’s what married people did, they slept in the same room, in the same _bed,_ oh _God,_ they were going to have to share a bed, weren’t they?

He pushed that aside as a let’s-cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it situation and hauled his and Crowley’s suitcases into the bedroom, stopping on the way to let Terpsichore out of her carrier. They had almost a full day before Gabriel was due to arrive with Tracy, plenty of time to settle in and make this seem like a real home.

It _was_ a nice cottage, though, he thought, glancing around at the well-kept old furniture and simple, tasteful decorations. It belonged, in actuality, to his friend Anathema, a health-food blogger he’d met through the Internet and subsequently gotten to know in person. He’d told Anathema the truth about himself rather ridiculously quickly, once they’d met in real life—she wasn’t, he’d realized, the sort of person you lied to. At least, not if you wanted to keep her as a friend. She’d gone back to America, though, for the holidays, and had agreed to lend Aziraphale her cottage, despite several cautions about exactly why, in her opinion, this was a _terrible_ idea.

Anathema had left a couple of dresser drawers open for him and Crowley, and Aziraphale unpacked fairly quickly, stowing the suitcase in the back of the closet.

“How’re you getting on?” Crowley poked his head in the doorway.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, pushing his drawer shut, “just finished settling in. Adam all set, then?”

Crowley nodded. “Took the smallest room, actually, said he liked the view best. All unpacked, too.”

“Excellent,” said Aziraphale, “and I’ve taken this drawer here, but this one’s for you.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, sitting down on the bed and unzipping his suitcase.

Aziraphale watched him for a moment, but then Crowley started taking out his _underthings,_ and, well, they might be pretending to be married but there were certain things one couldn’t unsee. “I’ll go get dinner started, then,” he said, quickly.

“Ah,” said Crowley, not looking at him. “If you—since there’s no one else here tonight, if you’d rather I took one of the other rooms, I’d—I wouldn’t be offended.”

“Not unless you want to,” said Aziraphale, carefully, “of course, if you’re uncomfortable with it, but I think—well, we’d better get in the habit of it. Before the others come.”

Crowley nodded, still apparently focused on the shirt in his hands. “Makes sense,” he said, “good thought.”

“I’ve been known to have them,” said Aziraphale. 

* * *

He made duck. They were having turkey on Christmas, of course, and fish on Christmas Eve, and beef tenderloin on the 23rd, which Tracy Potts had requested especially. But tonight it was just the three of them, and Aziraphale made duck.

He hadn’t realized how nervous he’d been feeling, how on edge, until he’d stepped into the kitchen and rolled up his sleeves and felt a sudden and enormous sense of _relief._ Because he knew what he was doing here, was the thing, he’d always know what he was doing in a kitchen, and no amount of awkward conversations or trepidation about bed-sharing or anxiety about the potential failure of his deception could keep him from that.

Crowley came into the kitchen a little after the duck was in the oven, when Aziraphale was just getting started on the salad. “Need any help?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “From _you?_ Allow me to remind you that I live next door, and I _know_ how often you get food delivered.”

“I work a lot,” Crowley said, defensively, “doesn’t mean I can’t _cook.”_

“Very well, then,” Aziraphale said, “you can massage this kale for me.” He thrust a bowl at Crowley. “Olive oil’s in the cupboard on the right.”

“Good job we came a day early,” Crowley said, “gives you time to work out the kitchen. So it’ll seem natural, when you’re cooking for Tracy.”

“Yes, precisely,” Aziraphale said, and then, without really meaning to, “and time to settle in to. Ah. Other things, as well.”

“Speaking of that,” Crowley said, carefully, not looking up from the bowl of kale, “I know we talked through a lot of things, the other night, and I promise I read the document through plenty, but we never really...we never...you want us to act _married,_ yeah? Convincingly, happily married?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “that’s the whole point.”

“Then,” Crowley said, “I need to know if you—well, the thing is, if we were really married, I’d probably. Touch you. Just, you know, casually, hand on your knee, arm around your shoulder, that sort of thing. But I wouldn’t want—what I need to know is, will that make you uncomfortable? If I touch you? Nothing—nothing _intimate,_ that’s not what I mean, I just...last thing we need is for me to try something, and you to get startled, and so...”

Aziraphale watched him work at the kale, watched the tensing muscles in his hands, the clever, slender fingers, the strength and dexterity of them. “No,” he said, softly, “I won’t—I won’t get startled. I don’t mind. If you touch me.”

He saw Crowley swallow. “That’s...ah, that’s good, then. To be on the same page.”

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale. “And, as a matter of fact, given that we’re by ourselves tonight—well, almost—it couldn’t hurt, I don’t think, to practice, as it were. Get comfortable. With casual touch.”

Crowley bobbed his head in a nod. “That’s not a bad idea. Get in the habit of it.”

“Yes, exactly,” Aziraphale said, and crossed the kitchen to Crowley. “So if I just…” He placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Like that.”

Crowley nodded again, still not looking at him. “That, that works.”

Aziraphale kept his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, feeling a trifle awkward about the whole thing. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Get all the awkwardness out now, so it wouldn’t give them away later. Crowley was still massaging the kale, and Aziraphale could feel the movement in his shoulder. He glanced at it, not thinking, really, and found himself watching the muscles in Crowley’s arm, right below where his hand rested. He wanted, suddenly, to move his hand downward, to Crowley’s upper arm, to feel the way the muscle contracted and expanded as he worked.

Crowley lifted his hands out of the bowl. “That’s enough of that, don’t you think?”

“Ah, yes, right, sorry,” said Aziraphale, and hastily removed his hand.

Crowley shook his head. “No, no, not—I meant the kale, it looks ready, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and was glad that he could blame the sudden flush in his cheeks on the heat of the oven. “Yes, thank you, it looks lovely. Very nice work.”

Crowley grinned. “See, I _can_ be useful.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, “expect you’ll be publishing your own cookbook any day now. _How to Massage Kale,_ by Anthony Crowley. Has a nice ring to it.”

Crowley shook his head. “What, you think I’m a threat, do you?”

Aziraphale, who’d been sprinkling toasted walnuts over the kale, looked up, and met Crowley’s eyes. “No,” he said, more sincerely than he’d intended, “no, I don’t think that at all.”

Crowley looked at the ground, breaking their eye contact, and cleared his throat. “Good,” he said.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Aziraphale said, glancing over at the oven, “if you’d like to get Adam over here.”

“I’ll set the table first, yeah?” Crowley asked, opening one of the cupboards. “Can’t hurt for me to get acquainted with the kitchen, too.”

“Oh, _thank_ you,” Aziraphale said. “Knives for the duck, of course, and wine glasses, I think.”

_“Definitely_ wine glasses,” said Crowley, with feeling, “and I’ll pour, if you like.”

“Yes, thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, without thinking.

Crowley froze mid-pour. _“What_ did you just call me?” he asked, sounding half-hysterical.

“I don’t see that there’s any reason to _laugh_ about it,” Aziraphale said, nettled, “only that I’d, well, I’d decided to call you _dear,_ in front of the others, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to get in practice before they come. But if you don’t care for it—”

“No, no,” Crowley said, quickly, “it’s—it’s good, just startled me, is all. Could’ve given me a bit of warning there.”

Aziraphale had _meant_ to give him a warning, of course—and, in fact, he _hadn’t_ meant to start the pet names before the others arrived. The _dear_ had just sort of...slipped out. 

Crowley finished the two (generous) pours of wine, and went to go fetch Adam while Aziraphale took the duck out of the oven. 

They sat down to dinner, the three of them, and it felt, for a moment, like being a family.

* * *

Crowley put Adam to bed around eight—apparently they had a whole routine involving storybooks and tooth-brushing chants—and Aziraphale, left alone in the kitchen, busied himself cleaning up.

“Oh,” Crowley said, coming back in, “I meant—I thought, since you cooked, that I’d better clean. Sorry, should’ve told you, now you’ve gone and done it.”

Aziraphale finished drying the last of the plates. “Oh, that’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I don’t mind in the slightest. Living alone, you get used to doing it all yourself—well, _you’d_ know, of course.”

“Well,” said Crowley, grabbing the plate out of Aziraphale’s hands to put it away himself, “isn’t the whole point of this that you’re _not_ supposed to act like someone who lives alone?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “But—I mean to say, this whole _subterfuge,_ it’s for _my_ benefit. You’re just helping. So it simply doesn’t seem fair that you should get roped into washing dishes, as well.”

“I don’t mind,” said Crowley, closing the cabinet with what seemed like unnecessary force. “Angel.”

Aziraphale flinched.

“Everything all right?” Crowley asked, the slight edge of annoyance in his tone now gone. “I didn’t mean to—”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, of course, ah, you were—you were going to call me— _that,_ right, we agreed on it, and, yes, I said we ought to practice, before the others came, so I shouldn’t have been—I shouldn’t have been startled. Silly me.”

“If you’d prefer something else,” Crowley began, “I can—”

“No, no, no,” Aziraphale said quickly. “It just—took me aback, that’s all.”

The truth of it was, it had been—well, it had been quite a while, a slightly embarrassing amount of time, even, since Aziraphale had been...since he’d had someone to offer to do dishes, or to call him things like _angel_ in a voice like that, one that sounded almost like a caress. And so it was thrilling, in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have been, to hear Crowley say that, even though he knew perfectly well it wasn’t real.

Crowley, fortunately, didn’t press the issue further. “Fancy a bit more wine?”

“Oh, _yes,”_ said Aziraphale.

Crowley grinned. “Yeah, thought so.”

Anathema’s sitting room, fortunately, had a _most_ comfortable sofa, and Aziraphale sank into it gratefully as Crowley settled into the easy chair opposite.

“So,” Crowley said, stretching out his legs, “what’s the plan? For the next few days?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I take it Ms. Tracy Whatever-her-name-is, your _fan,_ she’s going to expect to be _entertained,_ yeah? Not just sit around the house all day and only come out at meals?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said. “I do think that should really be mostly Gabriel’s responsibility, given that this whole rigamarole was his idea in the first place. I’d hope he has _something_ planned. Oh—” he shuddered slightly, as the thought struck him— “oh, Lord, I only hope he hasn’t planned a—I don’t know, a house tour, or a tromp through the woods with us, or something of that nature.”

Crowley snorted in agreement. “Don’t forget,” he said, “this woman’s sufficiently excited about meeting you that she’s come here to spend _Christmas_ with us, instead of with, I don’t know, her _family?_ No telling _what_ she’ll want to do.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, mind whirring (not quite at top speed, because this _was_ his second glass of wine), “seems it would be in my best interest to have some _tolerable_ activities at the ready. I’ve brought plenty of things for baking, we can all do that, icing for decoration, the whole bit. And if she wants to watch me cook, I expect I can handle that,” he said, doubtfully, “as long as she doesn’t feel the need to _comment.”_

“What d’you want me to do?” Crowley asked. “In terms of entertainment?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no, you—don’t bother yourself with that, you’ll be busy with Adam, won’t you? Looking after him?”

Crowley shrugged. “I mean, yeah, a bit, but isn’t the whole reason I’m here because Gabriel thought your fans were simply _gagging_ to meet your _dreamy_ husband?” 

“There’s no need to be _catty_ about it,” Aziraphale said, stung, “I’ve told you before, it’s not _my_ fantasy, it’s part of the whole _persona._ They want to imagine a happy domestic life, and I give them one.”

“Regardless,” Crowley said, “although I’m sure I won’t live up to the hype, as it were, I’m telling you that I’m willing to cooperate. Whatever you lot want me to do, just let me know.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, unexpectedly touched. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that you—you’re not going to be a disappointment. By any means. Not—not at all. I only, I just, it’s as I said, you’re doing me this enormous favour and I’d like to make it as easy on you as possible, that’s all.”

“Listen,” Crowley said, deliberately placing his wineglass down on the table. “If this is going to work, if you’re going to fool them, if _we’re_ going to fool them, then you can’t be thinking that way. You’ve got to stop worrying about imposing on me and believe me when I say that I’m fine with it. All of it. Don’t ask me _why,”_ he said, laughing a little, “God knows, it’s stupid of me, probably, but I’ve committed now and I’m not about to back down. So. You have to believe—in your own mind, not just in the story that you’re telling other people—that I’m your husband. _Not_ your friend who’s doing you a favour, _not_ your devastatingly good-looking and debonair neighbor—who happens, by the way, to be _quite_ good with kids, don’t know if you’d noticed that—but your actual _husband._ Who you wouldn’t think twice, I’m guessing, about asking to do the dishes. Who you’d rope into entertaining your fans _quite_ against his will. _That’s_ the act.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You’re right. Thank you. I’ll try to—think of it that way.”

“Good,” said Crowley, and picked up his wineglass, and stretched backwards in the chair again. “I’m thinking maybe we can do a craft. Adam likes crafts.”

“I _had_ noticed, by the way,” Aziraphale said.

“What?”

“That you’re quite good with kids. Well. The one kid. It’s—well, it’s sweet, really. I’m glad he has you,” he said, sincerely, because he remembered all too well what it was to feel like an afterthought, a burden, something to be shown off when convenient and thrust into a corner to be quiet the rest of the time.

Crowley glared into his wineglass. “Yeah, well, he needs someone, huh?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, willing Crowley to look up at him, “he does.”

Crowley muttered something unintelligible and finished the rest of his wine in a gulp. “Well, then,” he said, voice returning to its usual ironic tone, and stood up. “It’s getting late. Ready to go to bed, angel?” It sounded, Aziraphale thought, somewhere between a come-on and a dare.

He swallowed, and looked at Crowley, who was grinning, and realized that making himself believe that Crowley was his _actual_ husband was going to be both much, much easier and much, much harder than he’d thought.

“Yes, dearheart,” he said, and had the satisfaction of watching Crowley’s smug grin go slack-jawed in astonishment. “Let’s go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ There is now a lovely illustration of this chapter done by the wonderful GottaGoBuyCheese! ](https://gottagobuycheese.tumblr.com/post/190261824412/well-sorry-about-the-travel-sickness-then-and)


	3. Chapter 3

The bed, which had seemed quite large when Aziraphale had looked at it that afternoon, seemed to have shrunk significantly when he and Crowley approached it come nightfall. 

“Do you have a preference?” he asked, determinedly Not Looking at Crowley and focusing instead on a whorl in the woodwork.

“Preference as to…”

“Side of the bed,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and gave up on the Not Looking thing and turned to face him full-on. Crowley’s hands were shaking, just a bit, and so at least there was _that_ consolation—that Aziraphale wasn’t the only one feeling wrongfooted and nervous about this. 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, “well, then, I’ll get in my pajamas first, shall I?” He didn’t wait for Crowley’s response, just fished through the drawer for a set and headed into the bathroom to put them on.

Anathema’s bathroom mirror looked about a hundred years old, oval and gilt-edged and heavy. Aziraphale pulled on his pajamas quickly and glanced over his own reflection before brushing his teeth. It was, he reflected, laying into his gums with more force than was perhaps strictly warranted, patently ridiculous of him to be at all concerned with his appearance. It wasn’t as though anything were going to _happen._

So there was no point, was there, in running a hand through his hair, trying to get it to curl in the most flattering direction. There wasn’t any good reason for him to check that his nails were still neat, or to floss quite so thoroughly to ensure no kale remained between his teeth. (All right, there _was_ a good reason for flossing, dental hygiene was very important. It just didn’t happen to be _the_ reason he was so concerned with his mouth, at the moment.)

He emerged from the bathroom at last, trying not to think about the fact that his flannel pajamas, which he’d packed for their warmth, had little penguins dotted all over them.

“Cute,” said Crowley, when he came out. “I like the penguin motif.”

Aziraphale suspected him of teasing, but couldn’t find the evidence in his tone.

“Anyway, my turn,” Crowley said, and headed into the bathroom himself, brushing past Aziraphale on the way there.

Aziraphale swallowed, and began to wish quite ardently that he’d taken Crowley up on his offer to sleep in a different bed that night. Of course, that would leave them right back here again tomorrow night, and there was hardly any sense in putting it off until their guests had arrived.

But, the warmth he’d felt when their arms had touched, the sharp breath he’d heard Crowley suck in at the contact, the memory of exactly how Crowley’s shoulder had felt underneath his hand earlier, wiry and strong…

He climbed into bed, taking the right side, mostly at random, and tucked himself under the covers. Aziraphale suffered from insomnia at the best of times, and he was fairly certain that sleeping in a strange house, in a strange bed, with his—what had Crowley called himself? His _devastatingly attractive_ neighbor—was highly unlikely to prove soporific. He had sleeping pills, had even packed them for this trip, but they always left him a bit loopy, a bit out of it, and even setting aside the possible worrisome results of lowering his inhibitions while sleeping next to Crowley, it wouldn’t do for him to be anything other than fully aware and alert when Gabriel and Tracy arrived tomorrow.

Crowley came out of the bathroom, then, wearing black silk pajamas, which wasn’t, Aziraphale thought, at _all_ sporting of him. Not that there was an agreed-upon dress code for “pretending to be married,” but if there _was,_ Aziraphale rather thought it should include the admonition to dress as unalluringly as possible. (The thought crossed his mind that perhaps these _were_ Crowley’s least alluring pajamas, and he quickly dismissed a rapid sequence of follow-up thoughts that threatened to go in very uncomfortable directions.)

“Good to shut the light off, then?” Crowley asked, hovering near the switch.

“Ah—yes, if you’d be so kind,” Aziraphale said, burrowing further under the covers. 

Crowley nodded slightly—his hair, Aziraphale noticed with a touch of annoyance, was still completely perfect—and switched off the lamp, so that the only light in the room came from the sliver of moonlight peeking in through the window. 

He stepped towards the bed, and Aziraphale had time to think _Oh, Lord, he’s probably going to smell like some dreadful sexy overpriced cologne,_ before Crowley swung himself onto the bed and under the covers. 

“Good night,” Crowley said, softly, and Aziraphale, who’d been lying on his back, turned instinctively to face him.

He hadn’t realized how close together they were, not until he flopped onto his side and ended up practically nose-to-nose with Crowley—who, it turned out, didn’t smell like Greed by Gucci at all, but like...cardamom, Aziraphale thought, warmly spiced, like a smell wafting out of the oven, or the steam rising from a mug of tea. 

Aziraphale hurriedly turned over again, all the way onto the other side, but Crowley’s scent stayed with him, achingly comfortable and almost familiar.

“Good night,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. He felt Crowley exhale in response, felt the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck, and repressed a slight shiver.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

I can scarcely believe we’re already so far into December. For those of you who haven’t picked up holiday gifts yet, allow me to point you in the direction of my [ gift guide ](https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/qjd4k3/the-2019-haters-guide-to-the-williams-sonoma-catalog) —quite a few items on there with one-day delivery options! (And I’d be remiss not to point out that the Celestial Comestibles cookbook is also available for rush shipping….) But rest assured, no judgement whatsoever from me if you happen to be scrambling. Far be it from me to complain about my husband, but attentive readers will have gleaned that he _does_ have a tendency to be somewhat...last-minute in his shopping habits. 

But before we gather around the tree to exchange presents, we’ll sit down to eat some delicious Christmas morning cinnamon rolls (along with _large_ cups of coffee—although hopefully we’ve learned our lesson from last year about staying up too late wrapping our son’s gifts), and you can enjoy them too, by following this surprisingly simple recipe…

* * *

Aziraphale woke up disoriented, as he always did when staying away from home. He blinked a few times and took stock—he was in Anathema’s cottage, in the master bedroom, with Crowley lying next to him and snoring like a steam engine. Right. Of course. He glanced at Crowley again, finding the sight of him, splayed gracelessly across the bed with his mouth hanging slightly open, surprisingly grounding. Something familiar, that he could hold on to. (Well. Not literally.)

He sat up, careful not to disturb Crowley, and blinked the sleep away from his eyes before glancing at the clock. Only eight—Gabriel hadn’t specified what time he and Tracy were planning to arrive, but he’d said “afternoon,” so presumably he had a few hours, still, before they arrived.

Aziraphale slipped out of bed and padded out of the room, leaving Crowley snoring in his wake. No matter what Crowley had said last night, no matter how thoroughly he had turned down Aziraphale’s attempts to make this masquerade as easy on him as possible, it still couldn’t _hurt,_ Aziraphale figured, to show his appreciation somehow.

And, Aziraphale being Aziraphale, he determined that the most effective way to do this would be through food.

He went into the kitchen, where a disgruntled Terpsichore was waiting by her bowl.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Aziraphale muttered—yes, he used ridiculous endearments on his cat, it wasn’t as though there was any _human_ for him to use them on—and cracked open a can for her, which she dug into with immediate gusto.

“Waffles, I think,” Aziraphale said under his breath, surveying the contents of the cabinets and refrigerator. He got to work quickly, humming to himself a bit as he heated up the iron, stomach rumbling a bit in anticipation.

He was just pouring the first round of batter out when someone cleared their throat in the doorway.

Aziraphale turned around. Crowley was standing there, bleary-eyed and still in his pajamas. A few of the buttons on the top had come undone, revealing a wedge of pale skin, and his hair was uncharacteristically messy, flattened in some places and sticking up in others.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. This was _ridiculous,_ he thought, he’d _been in that bed_ the entire night, and he knew quite well that Crowley’s disheveled state was the result only of tossing and turning, _not_ anything more...scandalous.

But. Still. _If_ he hadn’t been in that bed, _if_ there was any room for imagination or interpretation, then the sight of Crowley all mussed-up like this _would,_ perhaps, have given rise to some exceedingly inappropriate thoughts.

“What’re you doing?” Crowley asked, voice still raspy with sleep, and Aziraphale tried not to watch the bob in his throat, or to notice how he reached a hand up to rifle through his hair and in doing so exposed a strip of stomach that had been hidden by his pajama top. 

“I’m making us breakfast,” Aziraphale said, turning away to hide the flush that he could feel rising to his cheeks. “Adam up yet?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said, and stepped further into the kitchen, closer to Aziraphale, who slammed the top of the waffle iron down with more than usual force.

“You’d better get him up, then, I think, this’ll be ready soon,” he said, hearing the strain in his own voice.

“All right,” Crowley said, an edge of offence in his tone, and stepped back.

Aziraphale felt a sharp pang of regret, and turned around again. “It’s, ah, it’s waffles,” he said, unnecessarily. “I do hope you like them.” 

Crowley grinned. “Sounds delicious.” He inhaled deeply, something shifting in his expression as he did so.

“Does it smell all right?” Aziraphale asked anxiously. 

Crowley nodded, still looking a bit distracted by something. “Yeah, smells—smells great. I’ll go get Adam now, shall I?” he said, in a bit of a rush, and retreated from the kitchen.

Aziraphale returned to his waffle-making, more than a bit confused but unwilling to admit it even to himself.

Crowley returned a few moments later, Adam in tow, and Aziraphale forgot all about whatever temporary awkwardness had passed between them in the rush of plating and serving and eating breakfast. He was not, unfortunately, so easily able to forget the way Crowley had looked, standing in the threshold to the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep and body all sinuous and limber. Nor, he realized, spearing part of a waffle with his fork, could he stop dwelling on how rumpled Crowley’s hair was, even now, as though—oh, all right, perhaps it was better to stop dancing around the thought and actually allow himself to _have_ it. As though, then, it had been Aziraphale that had caused the rumpling, as though they’d twined around each other, instead of keeping scrupulously to opposite sides of the bed, as though Crowley had run his own clever hands down Aziraphale’s chest and towards his thighs, while Aziraphale grasped his hair, threading his hands through it and leaving it as deliciously tousled as it was now.

Aziraphale didn’t have any waffle in his mouth, but he swallowed anyway.

“You all right?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, quite, oh, would you—would you look at the time, I’d best be getting dressed, hadn’t I, our guests will be here before long. You have Adam well in hand, yes?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, amusement creeping into his voice. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“Not for a moment,” said Aziraphale, and stood up hastily, nearly knocking over the coffee urn.

He grabbed articles of clothing from his drawer almost at random and rushed into the bathroom, turning on the shower, shedding his own pajamas, and stepping in to the torrent of cold water.

Aziraphale shivered a bit, because generally he was _not_ of the school of thought that held that cold showers were bracing and restorative. But, under the circumstances, it seemed the wisest course of action.

He squeezed his eyes shut and stood under the nozzle and tried to think non-erotic thoughts. He thought about vomiting, and about washing dishes, and about the emails that he kept getting reminding him to complete his daily German lesson. At length, once he’d gone almost completely numb (everywhere, not just the sensitive bits), he grabbed a washcloth and set to work actually cleaning himself. As one generally did, in the shower.

When he came out, an embarrassingly long number of minutes after he’d gone in, Crowley was cleaning up the breakfast things, and _how_ had he _possibly_ put “washing dishes” on his list of unsexy thoughts? Not with Crowley standing there, half-bent over the sink, sleeves rolled up and forearms deep in the sudsy water.

Aziraphale had half a mind to run back into the shower. Instead, he said, keeping his tone carefully modulated, “I can take over, if you want to get dressed.”

Crowley turned around and grinned at him, and Aziraphale’s stomach went all fluttery in a very _pleasant_ but also very _uncomfortable_ way. “Sure, sounds like a plan,” he said, and stepped back from the sink.

Aziraphale tried not to watch with _obvious_ hunger as Crowley stepped away from the sink and walked across the kitchen towards the bedroom. He busied himself, instead, with drying the dishes Crowley had washed, trying very hard not to think about how Crowley was even now heading into the bathroom, and taking off his clothes, and stepping into the shower…

Aziraphale sighed heavily, and turned on the sink’s tap again, and splashed cold water on his face. It was going to be a long few days.

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

Once the presents are all wrapped and under the tree, and our little boy is tucked firmly in bed, my dear husband and I don’t settle down for our long winter’s nap quite yet. After all, those few hours on Christmas Eve are some of the most beautiful moments to treasure as a family, before the rush and bustle of the holiday itself.

We’ll sit on our sofa, instead, and simply enjoy each other’s company, and a glass of Irish Cream—and if you want to enjoy it yourself, keep reading for my recipe…

* * *

Gabriel arrived with Tracy a little after three, and Aziraphale had never been so glad to see him in his _life._ Just the presence of others would, he hoped, relieve the building tension that hadn’t abated one whit since the morning. He’d rather been avoiding Crowley, who had seemed to take the hint and spent most of the day keeping Adam entertained, in whatever room Aziraphale didn’t happen to be in.

Tracy was more or less what he’d expected—a woman in her late fifties, with peroxide-blonde hair and a slightly breathy voice. “It’s so wonderful to meet you in person, dearie,” she said, wrapping Aziraphale in a hug he hadn’t asked for, _“and_ your little family, too, _how_ sweet.”

“I’m so glad you were able to join us,” Aziraphale said, a bit stiffly, “ah, I hope that the drive down wasn’t too long?”

“Not at all,” Tracy assured him, “and, besides, with Gabe here as company a girl can hardly be bored.”

Aziraphale, who wouldn’t have dared call Gabriel anything other than his full name if you paid him, nodded. “Glad to hear it, then.”

Gabriel slapped Aziraphale on the back. “Nice place you’ve got here! Just like you describe it on the blog, huh?”

“What, like I’d just...make it all up?” Aziraphale said.

Gabriel laughed. “Exactly. Now, though, I _do_ want to meet the famous husband, and I’ll bet Tracy here does, too.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “yes, right. Anthony, dear,” he said, hoping the tremor in his voice wasn’t too obvious, “come in and meet our guests, won’t you?”

“Coming, angel,” said Crowley, and came out of the sitting room and into the foyer, sidling up next to Aziraphale and draping an arm around his shoulders. Aziraphale tensed instinctively at the touch, but did his best to relax into it, to act as though this happened every day of their lives. 

“Now, aren’t you two sweet,” Tracy cooed, her eyes flitting towards the juncture of Crowley and Aziraphale’s arms. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Crowley said, disentangling himself from Aziraphale and reaching out to shake Tracy’s hand. “And you must be Gabriel.”

“So you are real, then,” Gabriel said heartily, shaking Crowley’s hand with what seemed like unnecessary vigor. “The way Aziraphale here talks about you, I’d started to believe you were too good to be true.”

Crowley laughed. “He flatters me. Don’t you, angel?” He looked at Aziraphale as he said this, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge.

Aziraphale marshalled his wits. “No more than you deserve, dearest.”

Crowley flinched a bit, but continued undaunted: “Nah, I’ve read what you write about me. All nonsense. He’s much better at deceit than you would think,” he told Gabriel, sending a slightly taunting smile in Aziraphale’s direction. “Aren’t you?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, and reached out a hand. Crowley had asked if he’d mind touching? He was going to show that he very much _didn’t_ mind it. 

Instead of taking the offered hand, though, Crowley shrugged his way underneath it, so that now Aziraphale’s arm was wrapped around Crowley’s waist and resting at the small of his back. Aziraphale flexed his hand experimentally, and had the distinct pleasure of feeling Crowley’s muscles tense in surprise.

“So,” Aziraphale said, in the most even tones possible under the circumstances, “we’ve still got a few hours till dinner, any preferences on how you’d like to spend it?”

Tracy shook her head. “Please, don’t change your plans on my account. I feel bad enough as it is, crashing your holiday like this, wouldn’t want to disrupt your celebrations as well.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say,” Aziraphale said, and beamed at her. He’d been more than a little worried about what, exactly, it would be like, to meet someone who was so much a fan of his as to want to spend Christmas away from home. But Tracy seemed like a perfectly ordinary woman, who was, perhaps, without family of her own. Aziraphale had been viewing the whole rigamarole as something of an ordeal to be got through as painlessly as possible. But seeing Tracy here, he resolved to attempt to give her an _actually_ merry Christmas, regardless of his own preoccupations. (Chief among these preoccupations, at the moment, was the fact that Crowley had moved his head closer to Aziraphale’s, close enough that Aziraphale could feel his breath on his hair.)

“Well, then,” Crowley said, not moving away, “why don’t I show you to your room, give you a little while to settle in, and then maybe we can give Aziraphale a little time to get cooking, and you and I can have a drink. You, too,” he said, addressing Gabriel as an afterthought.

Gabriel didn’t seem to take offence. “That sounds _terrific,”_ he said, and picked up his suitcase. “Lead the way!”

“Of course,” Crowley said, “I’ll see you in a bit, then, angel—” and he brushed a kiss across Aziraphale’s cheek before disentangling himself and picking up Tracy’s suitcase for her. 

Aziraphale waited until they’d all gone to raise a hand to his cheek, which was still burning where Crowley had kissed it.

 _Very well, then,_ he thought grimly, _he wants us to act married, I’ll damn well act married._

He returned to the kitchen to prepare—both for dinner and for his next move.

* * *

“This is _scrumptious,”_ Tracy said, around a mouthful of tenderloin. “Just as good as it always looks in the blog photos.”

“Oh, that’s _so_ kind of you,” Aziraphale said happily.

“Do I have to eat _all_ the turnips?” Adam asked, pushing the vegetables around on his plate.

Crowley leaned over and used his own fork to divide Adam’s turnips into two sections. “You have to eat _one_ of the halves if you want dessert, okay?”

“Okay,” Adam agreed, and started shoveling turnips into his mouth.

“What’s for dessert?” Gabriel asked.

“Creme brulee,” Aziraphale said, “and the custard’s all made already, just have to torch it. Shall we take a break, though, before? While I tidy up?”

“That sounds perfect,” Tracy said, rising from the table. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”

“Me too,” said Gabriel, and jumped out of his chair as though he were worried he’d be drafted into cleaning duty if he stuck around.

“You can go with them, dear,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, who’d gotten up and begun collecting plates.

Crowley grinned. “And leave you to clean on your own? Never, angel.”

He was joking, he was joking, Aziraphale _knew_ he was joking, and the slight spark of mischief in Crowley’s eye would have proved it if nothing else had. But there was an arresting sincerity in his tone, and Aziraphale found himself saying, “Very well, then, but would you mind just seeing if either of our guests wants a little something before dessert?”

“I’ll take coffee,” Gabriel said on his way into the sitting room.

“Anything for you?” Crowley asked Tracy. “Port? Coffee? Irish cream?”

“Ooh, Irish cream sounds _perfect,”_ Tracy said, “thank you so much,” and followed Gabriel out of the kitchen.

“All done!” Adam said proudly, presenting his de-turnipped plate for Crowley’s approval.

“Nice going, kid,” Crowley said, presenting his fist for a congratulatory bump. “Do you want to watch TV before dessert?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah, somehow I thought that’d be your reaction,” Crowley agreed. “All right, half an hour of TV but that’s it for tonight, all right?”

“All right,” said Adam, and made a beeline for the sitting room, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone in the kitchen.

“You really _are_ good with him,” Aziraphale said softly, handing Crowley his plate for clearing and standing up himself.

Crowley, unexpectedly, blushed scarlet, shook his head, and muttered something unintelligible.

“You _are,”_ Aziraphale said, relishing the upper hand. “Very _sweet._ Dearest.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, putting the plates down on the counter, “about that, I remember agreeing to _dear,_ I don’t remember _dear heart_ or _dearest_ or any of these...permutations.”

Aziraphale blinked with all the innocence he could muster. “Don’t you like them?”

Crowley scowled. “They’re fine. It’s just not what we _agreed_ on.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, “if we’re going _there,_ I don’t remember agreeing to cheek kisses, and yet.”

“And yet,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale found himself taking a step closer, backing Crowley up against the cabinet. “Didn’t _you_ like _that?”_

“It was certainly an asset to the deception,” Aziraphale allowed. He was very close to Crowley, now, unbelievably close, so that if he took another step forward their noses would brush. He had no intention, of course, of doing any such thing, but Crowley was squirming rather delightfully, and it wouldn’t do to back off before he’d gained some ground.

“Oh,” came a voice from the doorway, “oh, just _look_ at you two, how sweet!” 

Aziraphale turned his head to see Tracy standing there, smiling widely at them. He wondered, frantically, how long she'd been there.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said, but didn’t return to the sitting room.

Aziraphale shifted his gaze back towards Crowley, who looked somehow both amused and worried.

 _How much,_ Aziraphale wondered, _had she heard?_ The bit about “an asset to the deception?” It wouldn’t do to have her guessing the truth, it simply wouldn’t do at _all,_ and so he really had no choice but to take that final step forward, bringing his body flush against Crowley’s, and kiss him soundly.

Tracy let out a sort of coo, which was fortunate, because _something_ needed to mask the high-pitched squeak that came out of Crowley as soon as their lips met. Aziraphale ignored the hammering of his own heart, pressing into the kiss, being very, very sure to keep his lips tightly _closed,_ even though the movements of Crowley’s mouth seemed to be indicating that _he_ would be willing to change that state of affairs. 

After a few interminable moments, Aziraphale stepped away, and turned to see that Tracy had gone back into the sitting room. He glanced at Crowley, who had apparently become extremely interested in the linoleum.

“My apologies,” Aziraphale said, hearing the breathiness in his own voice. “I was merely, ah, ensuring verisimilitude.”

Crowley looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow, a faint smile playing across his face. “Right. Course. Good thinking, _angel.”_

“I’ll just torch the creme brulee, then, shall I?” Aziraphale said, but didn’t move away. He didn’t, he found, _want_ to move away.

Crowley nodded. “By all means. Set ‘em on fire.”


	4. Chapter 4

The inarguable benefit to having Tracy and Gabriel around was that the rest of the evening passed in a much less _intimate_ fashion. Tracy oohed and aahed in a most gratifying manner over the creme brulee, and Gabriel kept trying to talk about marketing and promotion strategies for the cookbook, and Crowley kept interrupting and leading him skilfully away with various ridiculous and distracting questions. Aziraphale tried and failed not to be charmed by this.

At length, some time after Crowley had put Adam to bed, Tracy started to make noises about being rather sleepy, actually, and how whisky always _did_ make her go out like a light, and Gabriel commented that he was _always_ in bed by ten, because he’d read it in a book about Habits of Successful People, and then they were both off to their bedrooms, and Crowley and Aziraphale were alone, again.

“Well, I don’t think that went half badly,” said Aziraphale, after they’d cleaned up the dessert things in slightly-awkward silence and returned to their bedroom.

Crowley frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, fussing with the hem of his shirt, “it was a bit odd, at first, but I think we settled into it rather nicely.”

 _“Sure,”_ said Crowley, as though he were making some grand concession, “all right, but you could’ve _warned_ me first, is all.”

“You’ve known from the beginning that Tracy and Gabriel were coming,” Aziraphale said, irked, “I don’t see what it was incumbent upon me to _warn_ you about—”

Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Not them _coming,”_ he said, “about you just up and _kissing me.”_

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and felt himself flush very deeply indeed. “Right. That.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, _“that.”_

“Well, I _do_ apologize, as I said, if you were at all—taken aback, but I was, well, I was worried that Tracy had overheard us talking about _deception,_ and I thought that perhaps some sort of, of _demonstration_ was needed. _And,”_ he added, “at any rate, I wasn’t the one who suggested that we make things _physical_ in the first place. That was all _your_ idea, what with your whole _do you mind if I touch you_ bit, and the _cheek kissing.”_

Crowley scowled. “What, are you going to tell me you _minded_ that? You didn’t _seem_ displeased. At the time.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, incensed, “if we’re going _there,_ I _must_ say that you didn’t seem to _mind_ the—the _other_ kissing at _all._ Or,” he said, with unaccustomed boldness, “do you _usually_ attempt to insinuate your tongue into the mouths of people that you _mind_ kissing you?”

Crowley, who had been bright red since Aziraphale had started talking, turned nearly _purple_ at the mention of his tongue’s erstwhile activities. “Well,” he spat, after a moment or two of incoherent stammering, “look, if you have _problems_ with my _technique,_ that’s probably a result of the _zero warning_ I had, so—”

“I didn’t say I had _problems_ with it,” Aziraphale replied without thinking.

Crowley broke off abruptly and stared at him in a manner that was simultaneously extremely flattering and extremely disconcerting. “Oh,” he said, after a moment. “I—oh.”

Aziraphale, unable to take the searing intensity of his gaze any longer, turned his own eyes towards the floor. “You understand,” he said, keeping his voice less shrill than before, “I don’t mean that as any sort of—”

“No, no, no,” Crowley said, quickly, sounding altogether too relieved. “I understand completely.”

Aziraphale looked up at him again, and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “It seems we’ve both made some...rash tactical decisions,” he said, carefully. “I’d say there’s no need for us to linger on either of them any longer.”

He saw the bob in Crowley’s throat as he swallowed. “That’s—yeah. Sounds good. No need to _linger.”_

“Bed, then?” Aziraphale asked, doing his best _not_ to make it sound like an invitation.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, and nodded. “Bed.”

* * *

It was still dark outside when Aziraphale woke up. He’d fallen asleep much more easily than the previous night—surprising, given that the previous day’s events ought to have made him feel _more_ anxious about sleeping next to Crowley, not _less._

But it felt comfortable, was the thing, after only the one night, as though the new weight of Crowley laying next to him wasn’t something unaccustomed that had been added, but something that had been missing and was now restored. Which, come to think of it, ought to worry him a great deal more than the more _salacious_ aspects of the situation, but instead only filled him with a sort of warm pulsing feeling deep in his chest.

He rolled over to look at Crowley, who was lying on his back, lips slightly parted but, unlike last night, not snoring at all. And, as Aziraphale turned, Crowley’s head turned as well, and his eyes were _open,_ and he was, apparently, also awake.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale, for lack of anything better to say.

Crowley, instead of responding in kind, just blinked his eyes slowly, his eyes catching even the small glimmer of moonlight that shone through the curtains. 

“Can’t sleep, then?” Aziraphale asked, as lightly as he could, given that his throat seemed clogged with sleep and—well, with sleep, anyway.

Crowley shook his head. “Thinking,” he said, quietly.

“About what?”

Crowley reached out a long finger and pressed it gently to a spot on Aziraphale’s throat, at the bottom of his jaw. “Your ridiculous penguin pajamas,” he said, and then both hands were on Aziraphale’s face, and they were kissing, _proper_ kissing this time, not awkward and chaste like in the kitchen. Aziraphale found that he was grasping at Crowley’s hair in a way that _had_ to have hurt but that Crowley didn’t seem to mind at _all,_ and Crowley was making these very interesting sort of squeaky moaning sounds, and he’d flipped onto his stomach, so that he was on top of Aziraphale, and their bodies were touching everywhere, everywhere, _everywhere,_ and, oh yes, it was _extremely_ interesting in all sorts of ways and Aziraphale’s body was beginning to make that known and he could feel that Crowley’s was, too, quite insistently, in fact, and now Crowley’s mouth had abandoned Aziraphale’s, which was really too bad, but had begun to work its way down his torso, which was very good indeed, and Aziraphale needed—he needed— 

He woke up. 

The sun was peeking through the windows, now, and as he turned to look at Crowley (who was, thankfully, still asleep, snoring with a strangely comforting regularity), Aziraphale was struck, unexpectedly, by the way the single beam hit his face, turning his skin golden, casting faint shadows underneath the curl of his eyelashes. 

And—oh _dear,_ well, his dream hadn’t reached any sort of... _resolution,_ as it were, but Aziraphale realized uncomfortably that the _excited_ state he’d found himself in while sleeping had in fact carried through now that he was awake. 

He took deep breaths, and silently recited the most unromantic poetry he could think of, and tried very hard not to look at Crowley or smell Crowley or _think_ about Crowley. He would’ve tried not to _hear_ Crowley, but unfortunately the snoring knocked that possibility right out.

After some time, when things had calmed down enough, he slipped out of bed and headed for the shower, because as awkward as it was to have _Crowley_ see his penguin pajamas, he was fairly certain that having _Gabriel_ see them would be more than he could ever hope to live down. (Although, knowing Gabriel, he probably had even _more_ ridiculous pajamas, and would likely view it as a commonality over which they could bond, which would be even _worse_ than being mocked.)

Like yesterday, Aziraphale kept the water cold for his shower, because even though he was _fairly_ certain matters were under control, a little extra insurance couldn’t hurt. Besides, it felt oddly virtuous, rushing through his usual routine while shivering slightly, instead of indulging himself in the warmth of the water running over his back, as he did at home. Aziraphale stepped out of the bathroom to get his clothes, towel-clad, feeling quite at ease and even humming to himself a bit.

This was promptly shot to pieces by the sight of Crowley sitting up in bed, and the way his eyes went immediately (gratifyingly, to be honest) wide at the sight of Aziraphale in his towel.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, clutching instinctively at his waist to make sure the towel _stayed_ where it was, “ah, very sorry, didn’t think you were up yet, I’ll just—I’ll grab my—and then—” He sidled over to the dresser, trying very hard not to make eye contact with Crowley, despite the fact that he could practically _feel_ Crowley’s gaze on his back, on his neck, the damp curls of his hair where they stuck to his skin, which was still ruddy from the cold. 

“Sound of the water woke me up,” Crowley explained, his voice somewhat strained, “uh, good morning, I guess—”

“Oh, I _am_ sorry,” said Aziraphale, and, really, it had been dreadfully rude of him, hadn’t it, to wake Crowley like that ( _and besides,_ a small voice in his head said, _in far less exciting fashion than how you woke him in the dream)._ So he turned, and smiled at Crowley, and said, in what he hoped was a sort of warmly polite but not too familiar tone, “Good morning.”

Crowley’s hair was mussed again, but his eyes were bright and alert, and the way they darted over Aziraphale, with something like _wonder,_ and a touch of shyness, too, made something in Aziraphale’s chest contract with longing. He’d pushed off the covers and was sitting cross-legged, the shiny silk of his pajama bottoms pulled taut against his thighs.

Aziraphale realized that now _he_ was the one staring, and looked away sharply.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” said Crowley.

“Oh—yes, right, same to you,” said Aziraphale, and bustled off into the bathroom with his clothing before he could say or do anything _else_ idiotic.

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

One of the key elements to hosting a successful dinner party, whether for Christmas or any time of year, for any celebration, is proper prior planning. The last thing you want is to find yourself panicking at the last minute because the turkey needs to go in the oven at 190 degrees for 45 minutes, and the potatoes at 175 for 30, and your guests are due to arrive in 10!

By planning out when you’ll start each dish, you can ensure that everything will be ready at the appropriate time (making sure to build in time for unforeseen complications, because I guarantee there _will_ be some). But in my experience, the _best_ way to avoid stress before a big event is to prepare and cook as much as you can ahead of time, so that you’re not left scrambling at the last minute.

Here are some of my recipes that can be made in advance with few to no adjustments…

* * *

“My snowman’s got a funny hat,” said Adam, wrinkling his nose and looking down at the shortbread in front of him.

“It’s called a stovepipe hat, dear,” said Tracy, pointing at the lines of it, “and it’s just like in the song about Frosty.”

Adam looked skeptical. “But I don’t see _why_ a snowman _needs_ a hat. He’s already made of snow, isn’t he? It’s not likely his _head_ would get cold.”

“It’s not practical,” Crowley explained, “it’s _fashion.”_ He looked over Adam’s head at Aziraphale, and winked.

Aziraphale smiled back, and ran the rolling pin over the second batch of dough.

They’d decided that today would be best spent doing a bit of Christmas baking, as it was rather nasty outside and it seemed like everyone would benefit from the warmth of the kitchen. The fish that Aziraphale had planned for tonight wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to prepare, anyway, so they might as well make a mess of the place during the day. Aziraphale had made (and rolled) the dough, Tracy and Adam were cutting out shapes, Crowley was watching the oven to make sure nothing burnt, and Gabriel was on decorating duty. He’d been delighted by this, a good sight more delighted than any of the rest of them (even Adam), and had taken up his sparkling sugar with the intensity of a special-ops soldier.

The oven timer beeped, and Crowley brushed past Aziraphale on his way to check on the shortbread. He had, Aziraphale noticed, somehow got flour in his hair.

“Golden-brown edges,” Crowley said, presenting the baking sheet for Aziraphale’s approval. “Look done to you, then?”

“Perfect,” said Aziraphale, and nodded. “Nice work, everyone, they look _lovely.”_

“They’ve got to cool for five minutes on the sheets,” Crowley said, reading the recipe off his phone, “and then we remove them to wire racks to cool completely, and _then_ you can eat one, Adam.”

“Ooh,” said Adam, and got up to look. “I think I’ll have the star. The Christmas star. Like in the song. Or—no, wait, I want the _tree,_ I like the green sugar bits on that one.”

“You take your time making up your mind,” said Crowley. “I know which one _I’m_ eating.”

“Which?” asked Aziraphale, transferring the rolled-out dough to the table for Adam and Tracy to cut out. 

“Why, the _angel,_ of course,” said Crowley, and grinned widely.

“Oh, isn’t that sweet,” said Tracy approvingly from the table.

 _“Very_ sweet,” said Aziraphale, as ironically as he could manage.

“That’s right, angel,” said Crowley, and licked his lips with more than necessary lasciviousness. “I’m just going to eat you right up, I am.”

Aziraphale stifled a groan. Surely there _had_ been a cornier joke, in the history of corny jokes, but at the moment he was hard pressed to think of one.

“Oh—hold still, dear,” he said, in return, and crossed over to Crowley, who was still hovering by the oven. “You’ve just got a bit of flour—”

Aziraphale lifted his thumb to his mouth and licked it deliberately, holding eye contact with Crowley and trying desperately not to vibrate out of his skin with terror and excitement. Crowley raised his eyebrows, a silent what-are-you-doing, and Aziraphale just shrugged, because he wasn’t quite sure, either.

He swiped his thumb across Crowley’s cheek, brushing off the microscopic bit of flour he’d seen there.

“Thanks,” said Crowley, and the sibilance he let creep into the _s_ was enough to cause Aziraphale to very strongly regret his recent decisions in the thumb-licking arena.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, stepping back, “ah, why don’t I—I’ll put on some _music,_ yes, that’ll be—some Christmas music, I think, that should—” He backed into the sitting room, feeling Crowley’s amused gaze on him as he went.

It being December 24th, pretty much every radio station was playing exclusively Christmas music, so it didn’t take Aziraphale long to find something suitable and turn up the volume loud enough that it could be heard from the kitchen. He straightened up from the radio, and saw Terpsichore, sprawled across the carpet in her usual draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-cats style. 

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale said, quietly, and walked over to her, bending down to pet her gently, just as he knew she preferred.

Terpsichore purred, and looked at him with an expression that said _you may be all friendly now, but I’m not forgetting that you’ve dragged me here against my will, and I know you’re having fish tonight and I’d better get some._ (Or, all right, maybe _some_ of that was Aziraphale projecting his own guilt, fine, whatever.)

“I never asked,” said Gabriel, who’d apparently followed him into the sitting room, and was now hovering just inside the doorway, “what’s with the name? For the cat, I mean, not _your_ name, you told me all about _that.”_

“She’s named after the Muse of dance,” said Aziraphale, a trifle defensively, because, yes, okay, that was a _very_ pretentious thing to name one’s cat, but also what else were cats for, if not to give pretentious names to? “She was a good deal sleeker as a kitten,” he added, glancing down at Terpischore’s pleasantly chunky form. “I do overfeed her, I’m afraid. I’m a bit of a soft heart about her.”

“You can say that again, angel,” said Crowley, wiping his floured hands on his jeans and coming in from the kitchen. “The _slightest_ meow and he’s opening up a can,” he told Gabriel, shaking his head at Aziraphale in mock-judgement. “And you should _hear_ the way he talks to her, all coos and sweet nothings. Save some of it for me, angel,” he said, voice light with mockery, and smiled tauntingly at Aziraphale.

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale, “don’t be jealous of the _cat,_ I beg you. You know perfectly well,” he continued— _fine, you want to do this, let’s do this, I can play too—“_ that I save all _sorts_ of things for you.”

He said this with what he hoped was an elegant arch of his eyebrows, but which he feared came off as more of a waggle.

Still, it seemed to have hit the mark, because Crowley turned a very interesting color and muttered something about “of course, of course.”

“I’d better get back to decorating, I guess,” said Gabriel, and if even _he_ was picking up on the tension then it had to be fairly through the roof.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and stood up, and went to go back into the kitchen, as well, and then three things happened almost at once:

  1. Tracy poked her head in the sitting room, and said, cheerfully, “Well, now, what’s going on in _here?”_
  2. Aziraphale took a step forward, and heard a hiss, and looked down at the last second to see that he was about to step on Terpsichore’s belly, and abruptly tried to put his foot down anywhere else and ended up lurching in an awkward stumble towards the doorway.
  3. Crowley stepped _into_ the sitting room, and put his hands up to block Aziraphale, on what must have been instinct, and ended up half-catching him, one hand coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the other on the small of his back.



“Oh,” said Tracy, reaching a not-at-all unreasonable but extremely incorrect conclusion— “you two are _dancing,_ how sweet!”

“Aaah,” said Crowley, not letting go of Aziraphale, “that’s—that’s it, that’s exactly right, we’re _dancing.”_

“Lovely,” said Tracy, and didn’t move out of the doorway. 

Gabriel was still there, too, and although he _had_ to be well aware that no dancing had been happening in the moments immediately prior, he didn’t say anything to correct Tracy’s misapprehension, just stood there looking at Crowley and Aziraphale in a rather expectant fashion, as though they might start doing tricks, or something.

“Dancing,” said Aziraphale, softly but with what he hoped was the clear message of _we had better start dancing, Crowley._ In an attempt to further communicate this point, he lifted his own arms, which had been stretched out awkwardly during his near-fall, and wrapped his hands around the back of Crowley’s neck.

The message was, apparently, clear, because Crowley nodded abruptly and moved the hand that had been on Aziraphale’s shoulder to join the other at his back, and began a sort of soft swaying motion, to the vague rhythm of whatever was playing over the radio. 

Aziraphale didn’t dance much, as a rule, apart from a brief flirtation with musical theater in his twenties, and he was momentarily worried that he might make a complete fool of himself in front of his marketing representative, one of his biggest fans, and his—his fake husband who was rapidly becoming a _real_ something else that he didn’t quite have a name for yet. He needn’t, it turned out, have worried, because although _he_ might have been a bit out of practice, Crowley, it soon became clear, was much, much worse.

“You’re _stepping_ on my _feet,”_ Aziraphale murmured under his breath, thankful for the moment that their faces were close enough together that he could do this quietly enough that it would hopefully pass for sweet nothings, in the eyes of their onlookers. 

“Your feet are _getting under mine,”_ Crowley retorted, but seemed quickly to realize the idiocy of this argument. “Sorry,” he added, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s cheek. “Not much good at this.”

 _“I’ll_ say,” Aziraphale said, his irritation vanishing abruptly. “Here, just—just follow me, I’ll guide.”

“All right,” said Crowley, and a slight smile crept over his face. Aziraphale felt himself smiling in return, tried not to get distracted as he led Crowley gently through the steps of some sort of stumbling sway, one that had no particular grace but at least didn’t result in any foot bruises.

“How _sweet,”_ said Tracy, again.

“Excuse me?” came a small voice from the kitchen. “I think something’s burning—”

“Oh, shit, _Adam,”_ said Crowley, and broke away from Aziraphale.

“Oh, drat, the _shortbread,”_ said Aziraphale at about the same time, and hustled after him.

It went to show, Aziraphale thought, later, after they’d finished the baking and the other four had gone into the sitting room to play Scrabble and he’d just finished preparing the fish—it went to show that it didn’t do to forget one’s _actual_ reasons for doing things. No matter how _appealing_ some other reasons might seem. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Jess (DiminishingReturns) for the idea of having Terpsichore cause these two idiots to trip and fall into each other's arms, thus truly living up to her namesake, the Muse of dance!


	5. Chapter 5

“So,” Gabriel said, spearing a piece of fish with his fork, “Adam, do you think Santa will be good to you this year?” 

Adam shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Well, have you been a good little boy?” Gabriel’s talking-to-children voice was, it turned out, even worse than Aziraphale’s.

Adam shook his head. “Not really. But I’m never really good and I get presents anyway, so.”

“Well,” said Gabriel, looking at Aziraphale with what was  _ hopefully  _ mock-disapproval, “sounds like Santa’s got a bit of a soft spot for bad boys, then.”

“Was there  _ really  _ no other way to phrase that?” Crowley muttered, low enough for only Aziraphale to hear.

“Can I be excused?” Adam gestured to his mostly-empty plate. “I’m finished.”

“And the sooner you go to bed, the sooner it’s Christmas,” Tracy said, nodding. “I feel the same way myself, when I’m excited.”

“Well,” said Crowley, rising from his chair, crossing to Adam’s side of the table, and swinging him up into the air, “ _ oof,  _ you’ve gotten heavy—but, here’s the thing, we haven’t hung your stocking yet, have we?”

Adam shook his head. “ _ Or  _ put out the milk and shortbread for Santa.”

“And a carrot for the reindeer,” Tracy said, “or at least, that’s what I used to do.”

“Rudolph!” said Adam. “Yeah, I wanna do a carrot, Unc—Dad. Can we?”

“Course,” said Crowley. “Right, you know where your stocking is, yeah?”

“Yes,” said Adam scornfully.

“Off to get it then,” said Crowley. “I’ll get the things for Santa ready.”

“All  _ right,”  _ said Adam, and zoomed off to his bedroom. 

Aziraphale, having finished his own meal, got up and began clearing the plates. “Here’s one for the shortbread, dear,” he said, handing Crowley one of the clean plates from the cupboard. 

“And the carrot,” said Crowley, winking at Tracy. “Nice touch, that.”

Tracy beamed. “Never had kids of my own, but we always used to do that when I was a girl. Glad to be able to pass it on.”

Adam came rushing back into the room, large red stocking in hand. “Got it!”

“Right,” said Crowley, “above the fireplace with that, and then you can come pick which of the shapes you want to give to Santa.”

Adam hung the stocking (Aziraphale took a photo with his phone, figuring that was probably the sort of thing parents did, on Christmas), fumbling a bit with the hook but managing it eventually. 

“Which ones, then?” Crowley asked, holding the tin of shortbread out. “Pick three.”

Adam deliberated for a few moments, eventually selecting a tree, a candy cane, and Santa himself.

“Cannibalistic instincts, I see,” said Crowley, approvingly.

“What?” asked Adam.

“Don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale said, firmly, and went to the refrigerator for the glass of milk. “Is this carrot big enough for Rudolph, do you think?” He grabbed one from the bag he’d bought for tomorrow’s side dish of roasted root vegetables, trying to find the most storybook-looking carrot in the bunch.

“Perfect,” said Adam.

“Right,” said Crowley, “we’ll put these out, and then you’re going to have a bath, and off to bed with you.”

“A  _ bath?”  _ Adam asked, in what wasn’t  _ quite  _ a whine but was more than halfway there. “Do I  _ have  _ to?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, “Lord knows you’re not going to want to take one tomorrow, and I flatly  _ refuse  _ to inhabit the same house as a child in the state of filth which you reach after two days without a bath, so. Tonight. No arguing, mister.”

“All  _ right,”  _ said Adam, defeated, and allowed Crowley to lead him away to the bathroom.

Aziraphale didn’t notice he’d been staring after them until Tracy cleared her throat.

“He’s good with the boy,” she said, motioning after Crowley. “Your Anthony.”

“My—oh, yes, well, I suppose he is,” Aziraphale said. “Certainly I don’t find myself to be, hmm, naturally paternal, but it can be learned like anything else, I expect.”

“Of course,” said Tracy, reassuringly. “What does he do for a living, again? Your husband?” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and tried to remember whether he’d ever mentioned it on the blog, or the printouts he’d given Crowley. “Ah, he’s in finance,” he said, coming up blank and figuring that the truth was best. He’d have to remember to tell Crowley, later.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Tracy, apparently not noticing Aziraphale’s frantic fumble for words.

“I’m off to bed,” Gabriel said, and yawned ostentatiously. “Merry Christmas, all.”

“Merry Christmas,” said Tracy, “and I  _ must  _ be getting old because what I fancy right now is crawling into bed with a Sudoku puzzle.”

“We’re all getting older,” Aziraphale said, in what he hoped were reassuring tones. “That sounds  _ splendid,  _ please don’t stay up on my account.”

“Goodnight, then,” said Tracy, and followed Gabriel into the hallway. 

Aziraphale gathered up the rest of the dinner things, and was just about done with the dishes when Crowley returned.

“Adam all bathed?”

Crowley nodded. “Bathed, teeth brushed, bedtime story read, wild Santa-related anticipation hopefully managed.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Do you know what he wants?”

Crowley shrugged. “It changes every time he’s told me. And, well, I’ve got no  _ idea  _ what his mum and dad  _ actually  _ got him. They gave me the presents all wrapped already.”

“Speaking of,” said Aziraphale, “hadn’t we better put them out? For when he wakes up tomorrow?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. I never did take them out of the car. Figured that was the best way to make sure he wouldn’t see ‘em.”

“We’ll go get them now, then,” said Aziraphale, and went to grab his coat.

“You don’t have to come out to the car,” Crowley said, “it’s cold out, I’ve got it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not at  _ all,  _ my dear, there’s simply  _ stacks  _ of presents. I saw them, you know, and I  _ know  _ you can’t carry them all on your own.”

“Not in one  _ trip,”  _ Crowley admitted, “but—”

“No  _ buts,”  _ said Aziraphale, and swooped out of the room before Crowley could protest any more.

It  _ was  _ quite cold out, he had to admit, heading out to the car. Particularly since the sun had gone down, hours ago, and the wind had picked up, blowing gusts that buffeted Aziraphale and stung the skin of his face.

“Here,” said Crowley, from behind him, and tossed something forward.

Aziraphale  _ caught  _ it, thank God for small favors. It was a scarf, grey cashmere, one that he’d seen Crowley wearing a number of times before. He glanced back to see that he wasn’t wearing it now—at least, Aziraphale realized, not  _ anymore. _

“You can’t  _ give me  _ your scarf,” Aziraphale protested, trying to hand it back. “You run cold, I know it, I’ve heard your space heater rattling away in the winter.”

Crowley knocked his hand away. “The longer you argue, the longer we stay out here in the cold,” he pointed out. “Accept the damn scarf and let’s get these presents inside.”

“Fine, then,” said Aziraphale with dignity, and wound the scarf around his face and neck. It smelled, of course, like Crowley, like the warm spice that he’d first noticed in bed. 

Aziraphale pulled the scarf up around his nose, which he could feel turning red from the wind, and tried not to breathe too deeply.

He’d remembered correctly, he realized when they reached the car—the boot was simply  _ packed  _ with wrapped presents. 

“I think we’ll need multiple trips as it is,” he said, grabbing a few items from the car and stepping aside to let Crowley take some as well.

“Looks like it,” said Crowley, who was apparently trying to build the Leaning Tower of Presents in his arms without regard for weight or stability.

_ “So,”  _ Aziraphale said, pointedly, “there’s no use taking more than you can handle  _ now.” _

“Oh, all right,” Crowley said, and let one or two of the smaller boxes fall back into the car. “Hope there’s nothing breakable in those.”

They staggered back to the cottage, arms laden, and deposited their burden in a corner of the sitting room.

“We can stuff the stocking after we’ve brought ‘em all in,” Crowley said, heading back out to the car. “Or, well, I can.”

“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale, firmly. “I’ve told you I’m helping and I  _ will  _ help. With the stocking, too.”

“You don’t—” Crowley started.

“It’s essential to the deception,” Aziraphale said, following him outside, shivering a bit at the fresh gust of cold air and nuzzling his face deeper into Crowley’s scarf on instinct before he realized that was exactly what he  _ wasn’t  _ supposed to be doing. “If we were really married, really Adam’s parents, we’d be putting his presents out together. So, if Gabriel or Tracy comes out of their room tonight,  _ that’s  _ what I want them to see.”

Crowley made a  _ hmph  _ sound, and said, “I see your point.”

“Excellent,” said Aziraphale, and picked up a few more boxes.  _ “Oof,  _ what’s he got in here,  _ rocks?”  _

“Yeah,” Crowley said, dryly, “that’s the hot new toy all the kids are asking for this year, just, like, piles of rocks.”

“I suppose it could be  _ coal,”  _ said Aziraphale, “if he’s been naughty.”

Crowley shook his head, taking a few presents into his own arms. “Nah. He’s a good kid, really.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, softly, and quite forgot about the fact that he was carrying a rather heavy box at the sight of Crowley’s delighted grin. 

They looked at each other for a few moments, and Aziraphale was quite glad of the scarf, actually, because he could feel his face growing rather warm despite the chill in the air.

“Mmmph,” said Crowley, at last, “anyway, let’s—” and he trudged on ahead of Aziraphale, back towards the cottage.

“Yes, right, of course, very good,” Aziraphale said, all the weight of the box returning to his consciousness at once, and hurried on after him.

After the fourth trip, they’d got all the presents inside at last, and Aziraphale peeled off his coat, unwinding Crowley’s scarf from around his neck.

“Here,” he said, handing it back, “thank you,” and Crowley took it from him, their hands brushing in the process.

And it was  _ ridiculous  _ that Aziraphale should be so affected by that, that he should feel such a shock of heat to his blood, because, after all, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t  _ touched  _ Crowley before. He’d  _ kissed  _ him, for Heaven’s sake, surely a simple touch of  _ hands  _ shouldn’t drive him wild.

Nevertheless, he looked away hurriedly.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Right, well, uh, to the stocking, then.”

Through trial and error, they managed to figure out exactly the right quantity of presents to stuff into the stocking to fill it up without weighing it down so much it’d fall off the hook, and Crowley darted around afterward, arranging the gifts that had been too large or too heavy into a sort of pile near the fireplace.

“Looks splendid,” Aziraphale said honestly, surveying the room. “Very festive.”

Crowley looked at the ground and muttered something that was at least a second cousin of “thank you.”

“We’d better make sure Santa eats the shortbread, too, yes?” Aziraphale walked over to the table where the snacks had been laid out, trying not to look at Crowley. He picked up the tree-shaped piece of shortbread and bit into it. “We’d better leave a bit left behind, it’ll look more realistic.”

Crowley nodded, and took the Santa-shaped shortbread, and bit its head off.

“Do you  _ always  _ eat that way?” Aziraphale asked, without thinking.

“What way?” asked Crowley, around a mouthful of shortbread.

“Biting the heads off first,” Aziraphale said, “you did it with the gingerbread back at your flat, and then again with the angel the other day, and—” He broke off, feeling himself flush.

“Didn’t know you’d been paying that much attention to my mouth,” Crowley said, and darted his tongue out to lick the crumbs from his lips.

Aziraphale swallowed, and looked at the ground. “I just have a vested  _ professional  _ interest in observing  _ everyone’s  _ eating habits vis-a-vis my baked goods.”

“Right,” said Crowley, and it sounded as though he were suppressing a laugh, or perhaps something else.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, hurriedly, “I’ll, uh, I’ll take the carrot,” and he picked it up and bit down as quickly as possible. (It had occurred to him that under the circumstances it was perhaps not the best idea for either of them to keep the carrot in their mouths for longer than absolutely necessary.)

Crowley took the glass of milk and sipped from it, making a face as he did so. “Whose idea was it to leave  _ milk  _ for Santa?” he asked, swallowing. “Personally, I think that anyone over the age of eight who  _ enjoys  _ drinking milk has something  _ deeply  _ wrong with them.”

“You don’t have to actually drink it, you know,” Aziraphale pointed out. “You can just pour it down the drain.” 

Crowley took another swig of milk, grimaced, and shook his head. “Wouldn’t get the authentic milk-running-down-the-sides-of-the-glass traces that way.”

“What,” Aziraphale asked, “do you think Adam’s going to be conducting a full-scale forensic investigation on the remnants of the Santa snacks?”

Crowley shrugged, replacing the now mostly-empty glass on the table. “He’s at that age where they start to ask questions, start doubting, y’know? And I will  _ not  _ have his parents blaming  _ me  _ for letting him in on the truth, that is just  _ asking  _ to be scolded.”

“Oh,  _ really,”  _ Aziraphale said, “that doesn’t seem at all  _ fair  _ of them, I must say, given that you’re already doing them such an  _ enormous  _ favor by watching him in the first place. It’s their own fault if they send him to stay with his bachelor uncle and he ends up finding out things he shouldn’t, whether that’s the truth about Santa or the—” he grasped for an example— “the meaning of the word  _ sexting.” _

“I assure you,” Crowley said, “given the current state of my love life, he’s not about to learn the meaning of  _ sexting  _ from  _ me  _ anytime soon.”

“Oh, really?” said Aziraphale automatically, with what he realized immediately was  _ far  _ too much interest. “That is—well, I just meant, as an example. Not that  _ specifically.” _

“Sure,” said Crowley, raising his eyebrows, “but, just to set the record straight.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Ah. That’s. Good information to have, I suppose.”

“Right,” said Crowley, drawing out the vowel, “seems like we’re done here, yes? I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be woken up at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning, so bed seems like it’s the order of the day. Or, well, night.”

“Yes—” Aziraphale started to say. “Or, well,  _ no,  _ actually, that is,  _ you  _ should go to bed, I’ve got to prepare the cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning. It’s got to rise overnight. The dough.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, carefully, “I don’t have to—I mean—I could stay up with you. If you wanted.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, quickly, “no, that’s—it’s really all right, I’m used to cooking alone.”  _ And if you go to bed first, you’ll hopefully be asleep by the time I get in, and I won’t have to worry about you seeing how I look at you. _

“Right,” said Crowley, sounding a bit hurt, which was  _ ridiculous,  _ “see you later, then.”

“Goodnight,” said Aziraphale, and headed back into the kitchen, turning his back so he wouldn’t have to watch Crowley walk away.

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

All families have their holiday traditions, and one of my favorites in  _ our  _ family is my traditional Christmas Morning Cinnamon Rolls. These are certainly a special-occasion recipe—pay attention to the total time, you’ll need to start the night before!—but the look on my husband and son’s face when they bite into them makes all the effort more than worth it.

The icing is optional with these, but if your family has a bit of a sweet tooth (I know mine does), you won’t want to skip the few extra steps…

* * *

Aziraphale closed the bathroom door behind him as quietly as possible. It was nearly one in the morning (the cinnamon roll prep and cleanup had taken longer than he’d anticipated), and Crowley surely  _ had  _ to be asleep by now. So he’d tiptoed back into the bedroom, put on his pajamas silently, and brushed his teeth softly, so as not to wake him.

This was all promptly revealed to be for naught, as Aziraphale climbed into bed and Crowley stirred next to him.

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry,”  _ he whispered, “I really  _ did  _ try not to wake you—”

Crowley shook his head. “It’s all right, really, I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and surreptitiously pinched the inside of his elbow to make sure he was awake, given this conversation’s strong resemblance to the one from his dream, the one that had immediately preceded all the—well, anyway, he  _ was  _ awake, and nothing of the sort would be happening in  _ reality. _

Crowley snorted softly. “It’s funny,” he said, keeping his voice low, looking at Aziraphale with heavy-lidded, vulnerable eyes, “you get so used to sleeping alone, years and years and years, and then have someone else in your bed for two nights and all of a sudden it feels empty without him there.”

_ “Yes,” _ said Aziraphale, agreeing so emphatically he forgot to be quiet, “that’s what I—yes, exactly. Even though,” he added, quickly, “it’s only temporary, and not real, of course.”

Crowley blinked slowly. “You know,” he said, his voice husky, “if you…” He trailed off.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley stared at him for a second, lips parted slightly, eyes vague and dreamy, hair rumpled, presumably from how he’d been tossing and turning, unable to sleep without Aziraphale there. The collar of his pajama top had fallen open, again, and Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn to the way his clavicle jutted out, to the hollow at the base of his throat, the glimpse of his skin, glowing almost golden in the dark.

“Never mind,” he said, at last, and rolled over.

Aziraphale allowed himself precisely twenty seconds of staring at the back of Crowley’s neck and imagining what it might feel like to bury his face there before forcing himself to turn away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i know ending the chapter with him falling asleep is basic AF but personally i consider it an olympic-level feat that i was able to hold off on it for this long given how much time they spend in bed in this fic


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale had never before been awoken by a small child jumping on top of him, and he was rapidly deciding that, all things considered, he was fairly certain he didn’t wish to repeat the experience.

“Merrychristmasmerrychristmasmerrychristmas!” Adam was practically _screaming_ in his ear, it felt like, and Aziraphale nearly reached out and hit him on the head before coming to his senses and realizing that such a course of action was likely to result in unpleasantness from several sources.

“Good morning,” Crowley said, sitting up and hauling Adam up off Aziraphale’s stomach. “Merry Christmas, kid, and _what_ ungodly hour is it?”

“It’s six,” Adam said, wiggling out of Crowley’s arms and jumping off the bed, “you _said_ any time after six…”

“You said anytime after _six?”_ Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley’s mouth twitched in amusement, and he shrugged. “Didn’t know you were going to keep me up so late, did I?”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to misinterpret that question, and failed miserably. “I suppose not.”

“Presents,” Adam said insistently.

Crowley tsked. “I dunno, do you think Santa came, then?”

“I _know_ he did,” Adam said impatiently, “saw them all laid out in the sitting room on my way in here, can I _please please_ open them?”

“Ah...right, then,” Crowley said, “let’s have at ‘em.”

“Yes!” Adam shouted, and barrelled out of the bedroom.

Aziraphale stifled a laugh. “I can’t say I remember being that excited about _anything_ in my _life,”_ he said, “although, I suppose, at his age, I must’ve been.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, in an odd voice, “I’ve been that excited.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, “when you were a child, I’d think.”

“Nah,” said Crowley, not looking at him. “Just learned to hide it better, that’s all.”

 _What do you mean_ lingered at the front of Aziraphale’s mouth, but he bit it back as Crowley swung himself out of bed and stood up, cracking his back in a stretch.

Aziraphale looked away.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, “we’d be pretty rubbish parents if we missed all the present-opening, so…”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and climbed out of bed himself, grabbing his dressing gown from the drawer and tying it tightly. “Let’s go watch, then.” 

“Look!” Adam cried when they came in, “it’s a _remote-controlled robot!”_

“Great,” said Crowley dryly, “it can do your chores for you, then.”

“And Jurassic Park LEGO,” Adam continued, ignoring Crowley, “an’ it says _ages 8 and up_ and I’m gonna use it _anyway!”_

“Oh, will you, now?” Crowley asked, and plucked the LEGO set out of Adam’s hands. “You’ll use it in two years, is what you’ll do.”

“But Mom said—” Adam started, breaking off at a warning shake of the head from Crowley.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Crowley said, voice low, “go back to opening.”

Aziraphale glanced anxiously at the doorway, but apparently neither Gabriel nor Tracy had been roused by Adam’s clamor, and thus hadn’t heard his slip of the tongue. All the same, he retreated into the kitchen, jerking his head to indicate Crowley ought to follow him.

“Look,” Crowley half-whispered, “I know he screwed up, but he’s excited and not thinking and anyway we can pass it off as being about his birth mother if we _really_ have to.”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, and worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“It’ll be fine,” said Crowley, sounding distracted all of a sudden. “It—yeah.”

Aziraphale was pulled away from his anxiety spiral of _I’m going to get caught and this will all have been for nothing and the cookbook’s going to be cancelled and I’m never going to be able to look at Crowley the same way again so I’ll have to move house_ by his realization that Crowley was staring at him blankly.

“What?” he asked. “Have I got something on my face?”

Crowley shook his head, as though coming back from a dream. “Ah. Nothing. I should get back out there. Make sure he doesn’t kill himself from excitement.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose I’d better put the rolls in the oven, then.”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah, not a bad idea. I’ve got a feeling we’ll be needing the energy.”

“Although,” Aziraphale said, “I don’t think _Adam_ will be needing the _sugar.”_

“You make a good point,” Crowley said, “so, just for us, then?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—of course not, Aziraphale told himself, it was a joke, why would he—before returning to the sitting room, calling out, “Right, then, what else have you got?”

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

Holiday leftovers are one of my favorite parts of hosting—yes, I’ll admit that after three or four days, one does get sick of them, but when you’ve spent the past week running around frantically trying to get everything ready, it’s a relief to know there’s plenty of delicious, already-prepared food just waiting for you. No more snacking on cheese and crackers instead of a proper supper!

But I know not everyone can stomach a week of the same thing—so here’s some suggestions on how to rework that cold turkey or ham into a brand-new meal…

* * *

“These are _heavenly,”_ Tracy said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin to remove the last bits of icing.

“Mmm,” said Gabriel, “celestial indeed.” He grinned proudly. “Get it? Because your blog—”

“We get it,” Crowley said.

“Well,” Gabriel said, sounding, Aziraphale noted with relief, not particularly offended, “I heard a certain fat man in a red suit paid us a visit last night.”

“Ooh, yes?” said Tracy encouragingly.

“D’you mean Santa?” Adam asked bluntly. “Because, then, yes.”

“And was he good to you, then?” Gabriel asked.

Adam nodded. “I got a _robot_ and LEGO and a water gun that looks just like a real gun and…”

“Sounds like you got everything you wanted, then,” said Tracy, once this recitation had finished.

Adam shook his head. “Not _everything._ What I really wanted was a _dog.”_

“Oh,” said Tracy, diplomatically, “well, a dog is a _big_ commitment, and maybe Santa didn’t feel like it was a good idea to give you one without asking your dads.”

Adam made a face. “I’d take care of it. I _would.”_

“Why,” said Crowley, dragging out the _y,_ “don’t we talk about this _later?”_

“But—” Adam started.

“Do you want another cinnamon roll?” Aziraphale asked, hastily.

“Yeah, _that’s_ an idea _,_ ” said Crowley, and grinned at him gratefully. Aziraphale’s heart contracted.

“All right,” said Adam, apparently abandoning the clear losing battle that was the dog argument in favor of the immediate rewards of sugar. 

“Let’s go pick out the best one,” said Crowley, and led him into the kitchen, leaving Aziraphale alone with Tracy and Gabriel.

“Santa couldn’t make the dog happen, huh?” Gabriel asked.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “you know, we’ve already got the cat, and, to be honest, not that Adam’s an _animal,_ you know, but we’ve only had _him_ for a little over a year, I don’t think we’re quite ready for _another_ living being to join the household.”

“Oh, Santa _did_ talk to you, then?” Gabriel asked.

“Um,” Aziraphale said—had he parsed the question incorrectly?—“sorry, what did you—”

“Well,” Gabriel said, in a tone entirely devoid of irony, “I always wondered, you know, does Santa just have sort of a general no-pets policy, or does he actually reach out to the parents, get their buy-in? Because I asked _every_ year, and he never came through, but one of my friends _swore_ he got his rabbit from Santa, and I figured he was lying, but if Santa actually _does_ ask the parents…”

“Um,” said Aziraphale, again, and looked frantically at Tracy for any hint of help, because he felt neither capable of going along with whatever fantasy world Gabriel was living in nor able to stomach the idea of asking a grown man straight out, “Sorry, you don’t _believe_ in Santa Claus, right?”

Tracy, unhelpfully, shrugged, her expression mirroring Aziraphale’s confusion.

Thankfully, Adam and Crowley came back in, just then, second cinnamon roll having been acquired, which effectively put an end to the topic.

“Now,” said Tracy, “what about you two?” She nodded at Aziraphale and Crowley. “I didn’t see any stockings with _your_ names on them. Are you exchanging your presents later?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “we, ah, we did them last night. By ourselves. More intimate that way.” He felt himself blush on _intimate,_ and kept his gaze solely focused on Tracy, although he could feel Crowley’s eyes on him from across the table.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Tracy said.

“What’d you get?” Gabriel asked.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. _Surely_ that wasn’t an appropriate question to ask? 

“Well,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice, “if you’re not going to tell them what you got me, angel, _I_ will, because I just _adore_ it. So _terribly_ much.”

Aziraphale bit back an instinctive retort, and said, instead, infusing his voice with all the saccharine schmoopiness he possibly could, “Well, if you _insist,_ dearest.”

“My _darling_ husband,” Crowley said, laying it on with a trowel, “got me this simply _wonderful_ jumper. I really didn’t know there could _be_ so many different shades of yellow. It’s all blocked, you know, sewn together in patches, _very_ stylish, lovely mustard colour as the background, and then there’s these little hearts dotted all over it, in neon pink, and it says in these big letters across the front, _It’s Wine O’Clock,_ which I think is _very_ clever.”

Gabriel laughed. “Oh, I see,” he said, delighted, “like _nine_ o’clock.”

“Exactly,” said Crowley, completely deadpan. “Aziraphale has the most _exquisite_ taste, and I’ve mentioned to him _several_ times how much I covet his jumper collection. So. He followed through.”

“That’s nice,” Tracy said, sounding as though she couldn’t quite believe that _anyone_ would _covet_ such a thing.

Crowley seemed to notice this, too, because he added hastily, “And I, uh, I run cold, you know, so when I put it on it’ll be like—like it’s Aziraphale keeping me warm.”

“Oh,” said Tracy, with much more sincerity. “That’s lovely.”

Aziraphale felt a wholly unwarranted tightening in his chest. “Yes,” he said, steadfastly not making eye contact with Crowley, “it is, rather.” He paused, and took a deep breath, and looked up again directly at Crowley, whose expression shifted quickly into mockery instead of—well, whatever it had been, before. “And,” he said, keeping his tone as light as possible, “wait until you hear what _Anthony_ here got _me.”_

Crowley raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

“Oh, what?” Tracy asked.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, thinking frantically for what could _possibly_ be worse than _It’s Wine O’Clock,_ “you know that old saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, yes? Now, of course, you won’t be surprised to learn that I do most of the cooking around here. _But_ dear _Anthony_ thought that I deserved a little _break,_ and of course I’d never let _him_ cook for _me,_ he’s a _disaster_ in the kitchen—” _take that,_ Aziraphale thought, _you and your “I work a lot”—_ “and so instead he’s got us a gift card and he’ll be taking me out to dinner.”

“Where’re you going?” Gabriel asked.

“Harvester,” said Aziraphale, triumphantly. “Anthony knows I _adore_ their barbeque sauce.” 

Tracy winced delicately. Crowley scowled. Aziraphale beamed in triumph.

“And,” he said, “the _best_ part was that he wrapped it up all nicely in this lovely little trinket box with a porcelain angel on top of it. It’s so very Anthony. You wouldn’t think it to look at him,” he continued, in faux-confidential tones, leaning in towards Tracy, “but he’s _terribly_ sentimental. Cries at films. Even the funny ones.” 

“Yup,” Crowley said, “that’s me. Regular weep-factory, I am.” He sent Aziraphale the world’s most syrupy death glare. “But I’m glad you like it,” he said, voice changing. “You _do_ work so hard on that blog. You deserve to get taken out yourself, for once, angel. Let me take care of you.”

 _That,_ Aziraphale reflected bitterly, was certainly _not_ playing fair. Crowley ought to take up _theater,_ really, the way he was looking at Aziraphale now. As though he _meant_ it. As though it weren’t all a joke. “Well,” he said at last, breaking the moment, “I expect I’d better get into the kitchen and start on our dinner, hadn’t I?”

“Can I play with my robot?” Adam asked. “While you make dinner?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, _“but_ I’m going to be supervising _and_ you only get to play with _one_ of your toys today, so make sure you want it to be the robot before you commit, all right?”

“Only _one?”_ Adam asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, firmly, “I am _not_ having our _entire_ sitting room littered with random bits of plastic, not while we have guests. So. One toy.”

“And,” said Aziraphale, as they crossed into the sitting room, “please _do_ pick up any small pieces, because Terpsichore _does_ have a tendency to mistake them for food.”

“Right-o,” said Crowley, and disappeared, with Adam, into the sitting room.

Gabriel finished the last of his cinnamon roll and followed them a few moments later. Aziraphale hoped fervently that he wouldn’t ask any awkward questions about Santa Claus. (Although he had slightly more faith in Crowley’s ability to effectively dissemble than his own. Or perhaps just more faith in his lack of compunction at lying to Gabriel. Either way.)

He began collecting the breakfast things from the table, where Tracy was still sitting. Odd, that, he thought, placing a stack of plates beside the sink. Tracy seemed a great deal more socially savvy than Gabriel, and even _he’d_ obeyed Aziraphale’s hint that he’d really prefer his space while cooking.

“Are you all done with that?” he asked, indicating Tracy’s empty plate. “Can I get you anything else? Another cinnamon roll, or—”

“No, no, thank you,” Tracy said, quickly. “No, it’s just—I wanted to _thank_ you. Sincerely. For letting me spend Christmas with you.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, awkwardly, “well, the contest was Gabriel’s idea, but I _am_ glad you’re enjoying yourself. Really I am.”

“You must be wondering,” Tracy said, “why I haven’t any _other_ plans, this time of year. I mean to say, I doubt there’s many people who’d leave their families behind just to spend Christmas with their favorite food blogger. No matter _how_ picturesque his life.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, who had, in fact, been wondering, “everyone’s got their own— _situation,_ I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Tracy, and sighed. “Yes, and in my case, it’s a rather usual one, I’m afraid. I was married, you know.” She reached into her blouse and pulled out a ring that hung on a chain around her neck. “For nearly twenty years.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Oh. That’s—I see.”

“We wanted children,” Tracy said, quietly, “tried for years, and nothing. He wanted to give up, and adopt, but I wanted to keep trying, and by the time I’d realized it wasn’t ever happening, right as we were starting the adoption process, he got sick. And passed a few years later. And, well, I just didn’t want to do it on my own. Didn’t feel the same, you see. So,” she said, tucking the ring back under her shirt, “I’m rather lonely, these days, over the holidays. Middle-aged woman with nowhere in particular to go. So I wanted to tell you, that being here, being with your little family, it’s been really wonderful. The best Christmas I’ve had in years.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, again, “oh, I’m—I’m so glad. I am. That I—that we—could have you over, then. I’ll admit,” he said, laughing a little, “I was a bit skeptical of this whole contest business, at first. Not an extrovert by nature. But you’ve been a lovely guest, really you have, and I know—I’m sure Anthony thinks so, too.”

“You two _are_ very sweet together,” Tracy said, “you know, it’s lovely to see. Reminds me of how I was with my husband, at the start. It’s a nice thing. Gives you hope, to know that kind of love’s still in the world.”

And _oh Lord,_ she was looking at him so kindly, smiling so genuinely, and she’d just _compared his completely fake relationship with his neighbor to the way she’d been with her dead husband,_ she was sitting there thinking that he and Crowley were in love for _real,_ and it was giving her _hope_ in the world, and Aziraphale realized abruptly that he couldn’t lie to her any longer. He couldn’t let this _extremely_ sweet woman go on believing the lies he’d been spinning for years, or that the shaky facade he’d been putting on was the real thing. Damn Gabriel, damn the book, damn the entire blasted _blog,_ he couldn’t stand there and lie to Tracy Potts.

“It’s not real,” he said, in a rush.

“I’m sorry?” Tracy’s forehead furrowed.

“It’s not—this whole thing. It’s not real. This isn’t my cottage, it’s a friend’s, I’ve borrowed it for the week, I live in _Soho,_ in a flat. This is just, it’s the story that I write on the blog, because people don’t _want_ the real me. I mean,” he said, and laughed a little bit, “bloggers are supposed to be _aspirational,_ would you consider a forty-year-old man who sometimes forgets to change out of his pajamas all day _aspirational?”_

Tracy raised her eyebrows, but stayed silent.

Aziraphale rushed on, determined to get it all out before losing his nerve. “And, and Adam? He’s not my son. Not our son. He’s Crowley’s nephew, his parents are out of town, we’re just looking after him. I’m not—I can’t _parent._ I can barely take care of the _cat._ And,” he said, hearing his voice break and plowing on anyway, “I’m not—married. To Anthony. Crowley, that is, I mean to say. He just—he agreed to help me, to keep up the charade, and I wasn’t going to tell anyone but then you said that we—and your husband _died—_ and I need you to know that we’re not really married. We’re not really—in love.”

Tracy blinked. “Well,” she said, at last, after what seemed like a very long pause but was probably only a few seconds, “I know.”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, faintly.

Tracy laughed. “Well, to begin with, the descriptions of your husband were always so vague that I never really got the sense that he _was_ a real person. And—look, I’ve _been_ married, I know what it’s like, and the moment I saw you two standing there with your arms touching all gingerly, like they might set off electric sparks if you got too close, I knew there wasn’t a _chance_ that you’d been married for ten years. You can’t fake that intimacy. You get to _know_ the other person, better than you know yourself, you stop thinking of yourselves as distinct individuals and start seeing a _unit._ No,” she said, shaking her head, “I knew you weren’t married. But—” she smiled—”I do think you’re in love.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, and _why_ did it feel like a lead weight had settled in his chest, “I told you, he’s not even my—we’ve never—”

Tracy shook her head again. “No, no, I know. But, you know, I’ve read your blog. For years. Every post. I’m a _fan,”_ she said, simply. “And the last couple of years, something’s changed. Slowly. That husband you write about, those little stories you tell, they stopped sounding so vague and nebulous and started sounding like a real person. You’d add these details, gradually, details you’d never think to make up. The way he shakes his head when you’ve made a particularly terrible pun, or the softness in his voice when he’s telling you you’ve been puzzling over a recipe too long. It was clear that you’d started, consciously or not, writing about someone _real._ Someone you knew. And, well, someone you loved.”

Aziraphale clasped and unclasped his hands, feeling his breathing come more quickly, like he’d been trapped underwater and was struggling to inhale. “No, no, it’s always been—fictional, it’s always been a fake person. It was never—there wasn’t anyone _real.”_

Tracy sighed. “I won’t claim to be able to read your mind,” she said, wryly. “I’m no psychic. But in my opinion—my plain common-sense opinion, which you can take or leave—your supposedly fictional husband has started to act a lot like Anthony Crowley.” 

She got up from the table. “I’ll let you be now,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Aziraphale picked up her plate automatically as she walked out. He stood there for a moment, in the dining alcove outside the kitchen, thinking furiously. 

It _had_ been easier, lately, to make up stories about his husband. About their life. In the early days, he’d found himself combing Reddit threads and picking friends’ brains, trying to find ideas that he could spin into charming little anecdotes. But lately—yes, lately he hadn’t had to do that at all. He’d _thought_ that was just because he was getting the hang of things. But if—if he’d just taken to using _Crowley_ as his model—well, that didn’t necessarily _mean_ anything, did it? He’d never denied that he found Crowley _attractive._ Charming, even. (Particularly when he forgot to _try_ to be charming.) But it didn’t necessarily follow, did it, that he was—in _love_ with Crowley. 

_Didn’t it?_ a little voice in the back of his mind asked. _Don’t you think that maybe the reason you’ve been pretending so well is because, deep down, you wish it were real? That maybe there’s a reason your mind went directly to him when you needed a fake husband? That perhaps it signifies that you just strolled up to him and said “Will you marry me?” as though you wanted to ask it for_ real?

And then it all came rushing in at once—the way he felt something inside of himself light up whenever he heard Crowley’s footsteps in their hallway, the tingling when their fingers brushed, the way he’d climbed into bed next to Crowley, breathed in his scent, and felt like he’d come home. The way he’d dreamed of kissing him—oh _no._ The way he’d _really_ kissed him. Just leaned in, right there in the kitchen, and kissed Crowley, without permission or warning. It had seemed all right, when it had been part of the game, when it had been just another way to needle Crowley into upping the ante in whatever sort of sexually charged hand of poker they’d been playing. But if he were _really_ in love with Crowley—and he was, it was rapidly becoming clear, really quite ridiculously in love with Crowley—then it was _wildly_ unfair of Aziraphale to take _advantage_ of him like that. To use this deception as an excuse to get what he really wanted. He’d been acting under false pretences, and the only mitigating factor was that he’d only just realized they _were_ false.

So—going forward, then, it had to _stop._ There wasn’t any need to pretend in front of Tracy, anyway, it seemed, but Aziraphale still didn’t want Gabriel finding out the truth. He’d have to continue to act married to Crowley, continue to _act_ in love with him (and _how_ had he not realized the reason it had felt so easy? It wasn’t as though he’d ever been a good actor). But there couldn’t be any more of this game of _marriage chicken,_ no more silently egging each other on, no more steady increase of the intimacy stakes. 

They were leaving tomorrow. So it was just the rest of Christmas Day, then, and one more night, and then it would be over, and Aziraphale could retire back to his flat and bemoan his own idiocy in peace. 

One day, then. One day to not let on that he was really in love with his fake husband. 


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale checked the clock on the stove. A few hours left before dinnertime, and everything was running smoothly—he’d put some crudite out in the sitting room, to tide everyone over, and according to his schedule, he still had a little while before the turkey was due to go in the oven. So he emerged from the kitchen to join the others, who were deep into a game of Scrabble. (Crowley was, it appeared, winning handily, although he was also doing double duty as Adam’s “special advisor.”) 

“Hey, angel,” he said as Aziraphale walked in, not looking up from his tiles.

Aziraphale tried to ignore the flutter that rose up in his chest at the endearment. It wasn’t _real,_ Crowley didn’t _mean_ it, tomorrow they’d go home and be back to just neighbors again and he’d never hear _angel_ again, never hear the little skip in Crowley’s voice when he said it, sounding like a hastily glimpsed secret.

“I just came in to see whether I could get anything else for anyone,” he asked, lightly. “Tracy, another screwdriver?”

Tracy shook her head. “I’m all right for now, thanks. Got to pace myself, after all.”

“I want a drink,” said Adam.

“Milk? Water?” Aziraphale asked. “We’re saving the sparkling cider for dinner.”

“I want a _fun_ drink,” Adam whined. “A _grown-up_ drink.”

“Uh,” said Aziraphale. He hadn’t been lying about his nonexistent parenting skills, but even _he_ was fairly certain that giving alcohol to a six-year-old would be _highly_ inadvisable.

“I know,” said Crowley, standing up. “We’re going to make you a special drink, just for you.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” said Crowley, and headed for the kitchen. “Not my turn for a bit, is it? I’ll be back by then.”

Aziraphale followed him. “What’s the plan here?”

“Shirley Temple,” Crowley said, cracking open a can of ginger ale and pouring it into a glass. “We _do_ have grenadine, I assume.”

“Ah—yes,” said Aziraphale, opening the mixer cabinet. “Good thinking.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, and took the grenadine. “Cherries?”

“Here,” said Aziraphale, handing him the jar. 

There was a moment of silence while Crowley strained to unscrew the lid.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, desperate to make conversation about _anything_ to avoid having to just stand there watching Crowley, who’d opted for a T-shirt despite the cold and whose arms were doing very intriguing things as he struggled with the jar, “I remember drinking those myself, as a child. Actually, I still rather like them. Though now I have the non-virgin sort, of course,” he added, without thinking.

There was a _pop_ as Crowley finally opened the cherry jar. “Uh,” he said, and _surely_ the sudden flush of red in his cheeks was just a result of his exertion, “sorry, you have—”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, trying frantically to think of any word other than _virgin_ and coming up blank, “the, uh, the _adult_ kind.” (Not better.) “With vodka. Shirley Temples with vodka,” he said, aware that he was babbling and unsure how to stop it.

“Gotcha,” Crowley said, and pulled a cherry out of the jar with his fingertips. “Want one?”

“Um. No,” said Aziraphale, watching the syrup trickle down Crowley’s fingers. “Thank you.”

Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and put the cherry in his mouth. “Mmm. These are the good kind.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale faintly. Crowley’s fingers were still stained red with cherry juice, and Aziraphale’s mind had become wholly unable to wrap itself around any concept other than licking them clean.

Crowley, apparently unaware of the effect that he was having, stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked.

Aziraphale thought very hard about snow, and industrial-size freezers, and large blocks of ice. 

“What?” Crowley asked, pulling his finger out of his mouth.

Aziraphale exhaled. “Nothing. Only, hadn’t you better get back to…”

“Right, right, Scrabble,” Crowley said, and pulled another cherry out of the jar to add to the Shirley Temple. “We’re just about done, actually, if you have time to join us for another game.”

Aziraphale glanced at the clock. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I do, in fact,” because _anything_ was better than standing alone in the kitchen thinking about...cherries.

“Look what I have for you,” Crowley said, brandishing the Shirley Temple at Adam as they walked back into the sitting room. 

“Ooh,” said Adam approvingly, taking the glass and managing not to spill. 

“What do you say?” Aziraphale prompted, feeling rather proud of himself for doing so. 

“Thank you,” Adam told Crowley obediently, “an’ also you won, all the tiles are used up and none of us can make a word.”

“Excellent,” Crowley said, re-taking his seat at the board. “However, a new challenger approaches.” He winked at Aziraphale, who steadfastly refused to wink back, instead keeping his eyes fixed on Adam as he sat down as far away from Crowley as possible.

Gabriel was gathering up the tiles and replacing them in the bag, while Tracy started a new scoring sheet. Adam slurped his Shirley Temple.

“I like the cherry,” he said, and Aziraphale felt himself go what must have been a most unflattering shade of red, and looked down.

“Good, aren’t they?” Crowley asked, taking his tiles from the bag Gabriel was holding out.

“I used to be able to do the stem-tying bit, when I was younger,” Tracy said, taking her own tiles. “Haven’t tried in _years,_ though. No idea whether I’ve still got it.”

“Oh, I think it’s like riding a bike,” Crowley said. “Never really goes away.”

Gabriel shook the bag in Aziraphale’s face. “Look _up,_ would you?”

“Oh—yes, right,” Aziraphale said, and looked up to take his tiles, and made wholly inadvertent eye contact with Crowley.

“You know,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale wanted very badly to look away but found himself completely incapable of doing so, _“I_ can do the cherry stem thing. With my tongue.”

Aziraphale rapidly re-evaluated whether the whole _ooh look at me as I fellate my own finger_ bit in the kitchen had _actually_ been accidental. From the twinkle in Crowley’s eyes, it appeared that perhaps it had _not._

Aziraphale fumbled a handful of tiles out of the bag. _“Don’t_ go insisting on showing it off, darling,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. “Not in _company.”_

Because if Crowley was trying to bait him into resuming the tenderness competition, Aziraphale wasn’t having it. He would be _just_ affectionate enough to fool Gabriel, and no more. This might be a—a _game_ for Crowley, a lark, a joke, but it felt all too real to Aziraphale, and he was determined not to let himself take advantage of Crowley’s good humour. 

“Right, my turn, then,” Tracy said, and laid down PATHOS on the board.

Aziraphale turned his focus to the tiles in front of him. Better to try and redirect all that competitive energy, turn it instead to winning _this_ game, instead of the other one. After a few moments’ thought, he played OLIVE.

“Which,” he said, triumphantly, “gets me OH, LO, and IS, as well.” He chanced a glance up at Crowley, expecting—hoping?—to see him annoyed, frustrated, perhaps reluctantly impressed by Aziraphale’s play. Instead, he saw only a wholly disconcerting look of _pride,_ as though Crowley—as though it made him _happy_ to see Aziraphale doing well. As though he cared more for Aziraphale’s success than for his own performance.

It was, Aziraphale thought, a wholly unbelievable expression—or would’ve been, if Crowley hadn’t been selling it with such utter, revolting sincerity. It wasn’t _fair_ of him to be this good at pretending, it simply wasn’t _fair_ that he should be able to look at Aziraphale with all that emotion, and have it mean nothing to him. 

Aziraphale looked back down, and drew his replacement tiles.

He sensed Crowley’s gaze, still on him, falter, but remained steady, shifting around his tiles mostly at random, pretending to be extremely engrossed in the practice.

“Nice work,” Tracy said, breaking what was threatening to become an awkward silence. “Four words in one!”

“Yes,” Crowley said, “he’s _so_ clever, aren’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up again, saw the challenge in his eyes, the _what’re-you-going-to-say-to-that_ look, and resisted the urge to reply in kind. 

“Your turn, Gabriel,” he said, instead.

Crowley’s face fell, flitting through confusion before landing on hurt.

Aziraphale looked down so he wouldn’t have to see it. _This is for his own good,_ he told himself sternly, _you know it’s not fair to bait him into an intimacy that only you really want._ This did unfortunately little to lessen the sharp, sudden ache in his chest.

Gabriel made a victorious noise and laid down UP.

“Ah—” said Tracy. “Right, good, I’ll...put that down, then.”

And this was ridiculous enough that Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling, and glancing up, instinctively, at Crowley to see that he was smiling too. They looked at each other for a moment, sharing the joke, the moment of _oh Lord, your publisher’s an idiot,_ before Aziraphale remembered all at once that he wasn’t supposed to be smiling at Crowley _precisely_ because of how it made his stomach go all swoopy, the way it was doing now.

He schooled his features into order and looked away abruptly.

“Do you know,” he said, glancing ostentatiously at his wristwatch, “I’d better get that turkey in the oven if we want to eat on time. Feel free—ah, that is, I might be a little bit, so, do feel free to go ahead without me. I’ll be back.”

He _did_ have to stuff the turkey, too. Perhaps not _quite_ yet, not on his original timeline, but if he took great care and double-checked everything, he could justify ducking out this early. And he _had_ to get out of there now, before things became completely intolerable.

The others watched, faces faintly puzzled, as Aziraphale rose to his feet and stumbled back into the kitchen. He found he scarcely cared what they thought—perhaps that he’d suddenly developed culinary performance anxiety. 

Alone in the kitchen, he sagged back against the cabinets for a moment. The ache in his heart had somehow cracked open into a gaping hole, raw and hollow, and he let himself simply _feel_ for a moment.

But only a moment, because he’d come in here to prepare the turkey, after all, and it didn’t do to _linger_ on the things that one couldn’t help.

He pulled the raw bird out of the oven and set about stuffing it with the onion, carrot, and thyme mixture he’d prepared earlier. It was messy work, even going slowly and carefully, and within a few minutes his hands were coated in raw turkey guts.

“Aziraphale?”

He whirled around. Crowley was standing in the doorway, that same look of bewildered frustration on his face.

“Ah...hello,” he said, waving a poultry-smeared hand. “Everything’s all right in there, I trust? Come to get another drink, have you?”

“No,” Crowley said, and advanced forward, all the way into the kitchen. “No, I came to ask what’s wrong. With _you.”_

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “What...everything’s fine. Just a bit stressed about the dinner, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

“Everything is _not_ fine,” Crowley said, spreading his hands wide. “You’re shutting me down at every turn, you’ve gone completely cold, you won’t even _look_ at me, for Heaven’s sake! What’ve I done wrong, ang—Aziraphale? I’m sorry, whatever it is, if I—went too far, or something, made you uncomfortable, I apologize, sincerely, but you’ve got—you’ve got to _tell_ me, you can’t just ice me out like this.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, it’s not—you’ve done nothing wrong. _Nothing,”_ he repeated.

“Then _what?”_ Crowley asked. “Because you’ve been doing a _terrible_ job of acting married, or at least at acting _happily_ married. Do you want us to have had a fight? Because,” he said, face turning animated with interest again, causing Aziraphale’s heart to pound uncomfortably, “I can do that, for sure, uh, do you think maybe I don’t get on with your mother, or something—”

“I don’t want us to have had a fight,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off, and watched Crowley’s expression fall back into turmoil. “It’s not—nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s clearly wrong,” Crowley said. “If you’re not comfortable doing the, the lovey-dovey stuff anymore, I get that, I do. I’ll stop right away, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” Aziraphale said without thinking. “That’s—that’s the problem.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” Aziraphale said, sucking in a deep breath and backing up against the cabinets, away from Crowley, “that it’s inappropriate for me to continue this...show of affection, at least in the way we’ve been going about it. It’s not—it’s not fair to you,” he said, looking down. “For me to, ah, to worm my way into an intimacy under false pretenses.”

“But it’s not false,” Crowley said, tone still bemused. “We’ve been on the same page from the beginning. I _agreed_ to this.”

“I understand that,” Aziraphale said, gaze fixed firmly on the ground. “I have, lately, become aware that we’re _not_ on the same page, anymore, and that there’s...information...that you don’t have, about my, my _state of mind,_ and that, in short, it would be taking advantage of your kindness for me to continue to behave as I have been, given the...the way I’m feeling,” he finished, lamely, and chanced a look up at Crowley.

Crowley’s face was screwed up in concentration, as though he were puzzling something out (not completely unwarranted, Aziraphale had to admit, given the rather roundabout nature of his last statement). His countenance cleared, after a moment, and he took a step forward. “You’re saying,” he said, slowly, and for some reason there was what sounded like _hope_ in his voice, “that it’s unfair to me for us to keep acting married because you...what, you _like_ it too much?”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, voice breaking.

“Right,” Crowley echoed, and stepped forward again, and kissed Aziraphale decisively on the lips. 

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to grab Crowley by his hair, his shirt, _anything,_ draw him in closer. His second, more rational, instinct was to push him _away,_ because hadn’t he _just_ decided he couldn’t do this anymore? 

Both these impulses were severely hindered by the thudding realization that his hands were covered in raw turkey, and so he settled for letting them flutter awkwardly for a second, trying not to notice the searing warmth of Crowley’s mouth on his, the dexterity of his hands as he brought them up to cup Aziraphale’s face, the heat of his body pressing up against Aziraphale’s and backing him into the cabinet.

At last—after too short and too long a time—Crowley let go, and stepped back.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Why did you—” He shook his head, as though that might dislodge the roaring current of emotion and lust sweeping through his brain. “There’s no one watching.”

“I know,” said Crowley.

“Then why—”

Crowley let out an exhale that fell somewhere between a sigh and a snort. “Why the _hell_ do you think I _agreed_ to this whole rigamarole in the first place? I don’t just _go around_ doing _favours_ for people I’m not in love with, okay?”

“Erm,” said Aziraphale, “therefore, syllogistically, it would follow that because you _did_ agree to do this for me, that you’re…” He trailed off, because, yes, he’d reached the logical conclusion, but that didn’t mean he actually felt up to _saying_ it. Not while his mind, his heart, his entire body was still reeling from the revelation, from the aftershock of their kiss.

“In love with you,” Crowley finished. “Yeah.” He’d turned, Aziraphale noticed, quite red, whether from embarrassment or proximity to the stove or...other sources of heat. “I mean, you came into the hallway that day and asked me to _marry_ you, and my entire brain turned into Guy Fawkes Day. Sort of hasn’t stopped,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “since we got here. Just, constant fireworks. A bit uncomfortable, to be honest.”

“Did you know,” Aziraphale said, desperate to render back his own vulnerability to meet Crowley’s, “that it’s you. That I’ve been writing about. It wasn’t on _purpose,_ I didn’t even _realize_ it until today, but it...it was you. That I’ve been imagining. When I wrote about my husband.”

Crowley grinned broadly and flushed even redder. “I guessed. Well, I _hoped_ . But oh, Aziraphale, you have no idea, when you came over with those sheets of paper with the relationship backstory, it was like seeing my entire browser history printed out. I’ve been digging, you know, like an idiot, through everything you’ve written, trying to find what you wanted, _who_ you wanted.”

“I want you,” said Aziraphale, revelling in the truth of it. “I want it to be real.”

Crowley’s eyes darted down to his own hands, to the ring still encircling his finger, and Aziraphale felt himself blush furiously.

“Not—I’m sorry,” he said, quickly, “I didn’t mean—we don’t have to get _married._ I just meant…”

Crowley stepped in closer again, lifted a hand up to cup Aziraphale’s chin. “I know what you meant,” he said, and leaned in for another kiss.

“Ah—” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stepped back immediately.

“What?”

“My hands,” Aziraphale said, gesturing with them. “They’ve still got...poultry.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Right. Ah, d’you want to wash them, or…”

“I think that’d be best,” Aziraphale said, crossing to the sink and turning the faucet on with his elbow. “Assuming that we wish for things to continue in this vein.”

 _“Yes,”_ said Crowley, fervently. “Very much so.”

“Then I _would_ like to have full use of my hands,” Aziraphale said, and he didn’t mean for it to sound as suggestive as it apparently did, but Crowley made a sort of stammering noise that apparently indicated assent and nodded vigorously. 

Aziraphale had been well-taught always to scrub for a minimum of 30 seconds, particularly when working with raw meats.

“Aren’t you _done_ yet?” Crowley asked, circling him at the sink.

“Look,” Aziraphale said, _fifteen, sixteen, seventeen seconds—_ “food safety is very important to me.”

“Mmmph,” said Crowley, apparently unimpressed by this argument, and started pressing kisses on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

This was extremely pleasant but also extremely distracting, and Aziraphale lost count of how long he’d been washing. “Now I’ll have to start over,” he said, repressively.

Crowley flicked his tongue against Aziraphale’s earlobe, and Aziraphale wondered faintly whether he’d been telling the truth about the cherry stem thing. He finished washing his hands (it had been thirty seconds, it _had_ to have been thirty seconds) and turned around to face Crowley, reaching up to finally touch _his_ face, and— 

“I thought you were _cooking,”_ said Gabriel from the doorway.

They didn’t jump away from each other—there wasn’t any need, they were supposedly _married—_ but Aziraphale reluctantly turned his face away from Crowley’s to look at Gabriel.

“Ah...yes,” he said, “Anthony just came in to check on me.”

“Right,” said Gabriel, seemingly accepting this statement at face value, “well, are you coming back to the Scrabble game or not?” 

“I _do_ need to put the turkey in,” Aziraphale murmured regretfully. 

Crowley brushed a thumb over his jawline before letting go. “Then I’ll rejoin you,” he told Gabriel, “and good luck with the turkey.”

“Right, come on, then,” Gabriel said, and motioned for Crowley to follow him back to the sitting room.

“Good luck with your game, love,” Aziraphale said, softly, and Crowley turned halfway to the door to gawk at him, and Aziraphale realized suddenly that he hadn’t ever actually _told_ Crowley he loved him, not in so many words.

Well. Surely there would be plenty of opportunities in the immediate future.

* * *

It turned out that it was, in fact, rather difficult to _begin_ a romantic relationship while actively pretending to _have been in_ one for the last decade. Not to mention, of course, that Aziraphale still had a fiendishly complicated dinner menu to carry out.

Crowley cornered him in the hallway during a break in the Scrabble action, when Aziraphale had just taken the turkey out of the oven to rest, and they managed to squeeze in a minute or two of—well, of _squeezing._

“Tracy won the game,” Crowley murmured against his mouth, “because how am I supposed to be thinking of _Scrabble words_ when all I can think about is _this—”_ and he stopped talking, and started kissing Aziraphale, who wound his hands through Crowley’s hair and tugged experimentally at it. Crowley squeaked, which was an _extremely_ satisfying outcome, and Aziraphale pushed him forward, aiming for the wall— 

And collided, instead, with Tracy.

“Oh! Just headed to the toilet,” she said, brushing past, “ah, don’t mind me—” and she winked confidentially at Aziraphale, who gave a weak smile in return.

Crowley looked as though he was quite willing to pick up where they’d left off, but Aziraphale glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. “I’ve got to get the potatoes ready, I’m afraid.”

“Right, right,” said Crowley, making what was clearly a valiant effort not to sound overly disappointed. “I’ll catch you later.”

 _Later,_ it turned out, was halfway through dinner, when Aziraphale sighed happily at a particularly toothsome bite of parsnip and looked up to catch Crowley watching him with a very particular look in his eye.

“Oh, I’ve just remembered that I need to—that the dessert needs a bit of attention,” Aziraphale said, standing up hurriedly from the table. “I’ll just—won’t be a moment.”

Crowley joined him in the kitchen a minute later, and they were kissing enthusiastically up against the refrigerator, and Aziraphale had just managed to get his hand under the hem of Crowley’s T-shirt, when a small voice said from the doorway, “Can I have another sparkling cider?”

“Adam,” Crowley said, stepping hastily back and tugging his shirt back down (Aziraphale noted regretfully). “Hey, uh, yeah, let me just...I’ll help you.” He reached for the cider bottle and mouthed “Later?” to Aziraphale, who nodded, resigned, and headed back to the dining room.

They caught another moment just after Adam had gone to bed, while Gabriel was taking a shower—Aziraphale could _hear_ the water running—and Tracy had made faint noises about doing a crossword before commenting once again on the quality of the dessert and heading to her room.

Aziraphale noticed one of Adam’s new toys in a corner of the sitting room, and bent to pick it up, and when he stood up again, there was Crowley, and then the toy had fallen back onto the floor because Aziraphale’s hands had found much better things to grip onto, and Crowley wrapped one hand around Aziraphale’s waist and let the other rest at the back of his neck, and was just starting to flick his tongue into Aziraphale’s open mouth…

And Terpsichore meowed, loudly, and Aziraphale realized all at once he’d forgotten to feed her dinner.

“Dear,” he said, and pulled back from Crowley, “perhaps we’d better save this for after _everything’s_ done. Because, you know, I don’t want to stop _now,_ I’m scarcely going to be more amenable to the idea once we’ve, ah, _really_ begun.”

“Sure,” said Crowley, not sounding very sure, and disentangled himself. “I’ll get going on the dishes, then.”

 _“Thank_ you,” Aziraphale said, and smiled at him, and Crowley turned red and looked at the ground, and Aziraphale was _never_ going to get tired of that, was he?

* * *

“Right,” said Crowley, and sat down on the bed. “Here we are, then. Alone. In our bedroom.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, and settled in next to him, resting his head on one of Crowley’s shoulders. “No more interruptions.”

“No more interruptions,” echoed Crowley, and kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head. “So we can…”

Aziraphale, detecting something other than pure enthusiasm in his tone, lifted his head to look him in the eye. “We _can,”_ he said, carefully, “but, we don’t _have_ to. I am,” he said, realizing the truth of it as he spoke, _“incredibly_ tired.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Crowley, quickly, “me, too, I mean, Christ, we barely got any sleep last night, and what with me chasing Adam around all day, and you cooking—”

“Scarcely the best time to attempt anything taxing, I think,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley barked a laugh of agreement. “That’s the trouble with skipping right to married-with-a-kid,” he said ruefully. “Breezed right on past the honeymoon period, we have.” He leaned his head back against the pillows.

Aziraphale, still seated upright, looked down at him and ran a hand gently down his forearm. “There’ll be time enough later,” he said, meaning it. “For one thing, I do live _quite_ nearby.”

Crowley laughed again, more quietly this time. “Convenient, that.”

“Remarkably so,” Aziraphale said, and, moving his hand upwards to palm Crowley’s cheek, added, “I meant to say this earlier, but it—got away from me somehow. In any case. I love you.”

Crowley grinned up at him. “Love you too, angel,” he said, and Aziraphale bent down to kiss him softly, because he wasn’t too tired for _that._

* * *

**celestialcomestibles.blogspot.com**

Dear readers,

As the year draws to a close, I’m surprised and delighted to say that things have changed more for me in the last several days than I could _possibly_ have imagined. I can’t share too many of the details with you, unfortunately—longtime readers will be well aware of how I do like to maintain at least a _little_ mystery in my family life, and my husband prefers _not_ to have an extensive Internet presence—but I _can_ say that this year’s Celestial Christmas contest worked out, truly, _incredibly_ well. Thank you to all of you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this blog, for pre-ordering the cookbook, for supporting me for so many years. It means the world, truly…

* * *

“Are you done writing that yet?” Crowley called from where he lay sprawled across Aziraphale’s sofa, tapping absentmindedly away at some game on his phone and half-watching the television. “Ball drops in two minutes, and if no one kisses me at midnight I am going to be simply _devastated.”_

“Yes, all right,” Aziraphale said, and ran the text over once for spelling errors before hitting Post. 

They’d returned to London the morning of the 26th, leaving behind a meticulously cleaned cottage for Anathema, as well as a plate of vegan cookies as a thank-you. Tracy had sent Aziraphale more than a few knowing looks as she took her leave, but mercifully didn’t press him for details. (He supposed, after the encounter in the hallway, she scarcely needed to.) And Gabriel had headed out apparently none the wiser. 

“Although,” Aziraphale pointed out, “it _is_ convenient that I _did_ happen to be in love with you, because now I can trot you out whenever he asks.”

“I’m so glad it was _convenient,”_ Crowley replied, “real romantic start to a relationship, that—” (He stopped talking at this juncture, because Aziraphale was _not_ in an arguing mood, and had begun demonstrating in a very pointed fashion exactly what kind of mood he _was_ in. It involved his mouth and Crowley’s collarbones.)

Adam’s parents had returned from their cruise on the 29th, and Aziraphale had been surprised to discover he was a bit sad to see him go, even if he’d never really gotten the hang of the whole pseudo-parenting bit. 

He was not, however, sad to realize that Adam’s departure meant that Crowley now had a great deal more free time, and was apparently willing and eager to spend just about every minute of it over at Aziraphale’s flat, watching him cook and teasing him about how his new blog design made him look like an _influencer._ (And, yes, not having to look after Adam anymore had left Crowley with a great deal more energy for other activities of a more adult nature, which Aziraphale _certainly_ had no intention of complaining about.)

“Come _on,”_ Crowley said, “they’re starting the countdown,” and Aziraphale pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up, taking the few steps across the room to join Crowley on the sofa. 

He took one of Crowley’s hands in his own. They’d taken off the wedding rings, of course, once they’d returned to London. Aziraphale had thought he’d perhaps _miss_ seeing them there, but in fact he’d been rather relieved. The rings, after all, had been fake, and this—Crowley here on the sofa with him, twining an arm around his shoulders, while a newsreader’s voice counted down the seconds in the background—this was _real._

“Happy New Year,” Crowley said, softly, as fireworks exploded on the screen, and Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss.

“This is rather an auspicious start to the year, I think,” he said, breaking away after a few moments. "Bodes well for what's to come."

Crowley grinned. “Well,” he said, and brought his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, drawing him in again, “can’t have too many good omens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SOLEMNLY SWEAR i wrote those last two words not realizing and then I COULDN'T change them, I'm so genuinely sorry, that is the CORNIEST thing I've ever done but it's 2 AM and I have no judgement anymore.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with this Christmas fic this far beyond Christmas! I was a bit worried enthusiasm for this would drop abruptly once we hit January, so thank you for proving me wrong :)
> 
> If you missed it, there is now lovely art for chapter 2 of this fic by the wonderful [GottaGoBuyCheese](https://gottagobuycheese.tumblr.com/post/190261824412/well-sorry-about-the-travel-sickness-then-and)!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [fremulon](http://fremulon.tumblr.com) if you'd like to come by and say hi!
> 
> I'll also be posting my project for the Good Omens Big Bang in the next couple of weeks--it's a Regency romance that's actually _not_ a human AU (for once).
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and Happy (much belated) New Year!


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